


Broken

by shushu_yaoi_lj



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Jealousy, Loss, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Moderately Slow Burn, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Scars, Scent Kink, Secret Relationship, Smut, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Triggering Memories, Very Minor Character Death, mention of suicide, post ww1 au, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shushu_yaoi_lj/pseuds/shushu_yaoi_lj
Summary: The Great War is over and Simon Snow has survived.He’s full of scars and bad memories, but he’s still alive and he’s found a job at Pitch Manor as a gamekeeper. So why is he still feeling so broken?And why is Lord Basilton constantly following him around, asking him a million question?
Relationships: Dev/Niall (Simon Snow), Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 234
Kudos: 283
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a Lady Chatterley’s Lover cross-over, but I changed my mind pretty soon and abandoned the plan. If you spot any similarities with D.H. Lawrence’s book or the film adaptation, they are intentional. Baz and Simon are in their mid-twenties in this fic.  
> All the chapters start with lyrics from different songs (I might create a playlist). Please double check the tags and the trigger warnings at the beginning of the chapters.  
> A massive, huge, colossal thank you goes to my betas [ Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis). I honestly couldn’t have done this without your support. You’re both stars!  
> I really hope you like this fic; I have enjoyed writing it immensely and it’s coming from the bottom of my heart.  
>  **Trigger warning **for minor injury and very minor bleeding.****

_“Hard times flowing_

_and my eyes couldn’t see stars shining,_

_my heart couldn’t feel_

_the beauty of the rising sun._

_And I’m lost like a bottle_

_that floats in the sea for ever._

_Will somebody pick up my hope?_

_Will somebody try?_

_Will I realize?”_

_Elisa, “Broken”_

**Simon**

I look up and swallow, my fingers going automatically for my curls.

Pitch Manor.

The imposing building is the biggest fucking house I’ve ever seen. How do rich people even manage to keep track of how many rooms they have? What do they use them for? Gareth told me that it’s just Mr Grimm and his family living here; they have a few little ones, but I doubt they need all this space…

“This way, Mr Snow,” the butler says. He’s treating me like vermin, his lips curled downwards and his eyes glaring at my clothes. I’m wearing the best ones I’ve got and they still look like rags compared to his.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe I should leave.

But I need this job. The war is over and Ebb is gone (so many people have died…I’ve lost count). I don’t have a home, again, and I can’t work at the colliery anymore, because my leg is too bad and my lungs are broken.

So I follow the butler into the house, staring with my mouth wide open at the luxurious rooms and high ceilings. Just the chandelier is probably worth more than me.

We stop in front of a room with a thick door and the butler knocks.

“Come in,” says a deep voice from inside and I feel my hands shaking, so I clench my hat and start fiddling with it.

I try not to limp as I go in; I don’t want to give them the wrong impression that I can’t do this job.

The man sitting behind the desk looks terrifying; his hair is completely white, with a stark widow’s peak. He has high cheekbones and a cold expression on his face.

“Mr Snow, I believe,” he says in crisp posh tones. I don’t really like the way my name sounds in his mouth, but I nod anyway.

“I believe Lord Mage recommended you personally,” he says, but does not wait for an answer before continuing, “do you have a reference letter from him?”

“Yes, S-sir,” bloody stammer!

I fumble with my pocket and get the letter out, then hand it to him, when I hear the butler grumble behind me. He hurriedly comes to my side and offers a silver tray for my letter. I put it on, trying not to touch the bloody thing (I wouldn’t want to stain it with my hands) and then he hands it to his master.

Mr Grimm opens the envelope and reads through the letter quickly.

“You’ve worked at Watford Manor for five years before the war,” he reads, “what were you doing before that?”

“I was working at the colliery, Sir,” I say, trying to stay calm and avoid stuttering, “but I got injured in the war, a bullet in my leg and one through my chest, and the doctor said I have to be outside. I can’t be a collier no more.”

He nods and folds the letter back, then puts it on the tray and the butler hands it to me. Such a useless faff…

“Lord Mage was very complimentary and wrote that he wished he could have taken you back after the war. It’s a shame he was already employing someone else as a gamekeeper,” he says and his eyes meet mine. They’re brown, quite dark, they suddenly remind me of the mud in the trenches and I swallow loudly, looking away.

Don’t go there. Not now.

My fingers start shaking again, cold sweat making them slippery. I wish I could stick them in my pockets as I usually do, but I don’t want him to think that I’m rude. I hide my hands behind my back, letting each finger tap against my thumb, one at a time, on and on, until I’m calm enough to start breathing normally again. In and out. In and out.

“Well, you should start here at Pitch Manor on Monday morning at 7,” I let out a breath I didn’t even realise I was holding, “don’t be late or I will give the job to someone else.”

“I will be on time, Sir,” I say, “thank you.”

“My son Basilton will actually be the one managing the estate. My wife and I are moving to France at the end of the week.”

It makes no difference to me. I just hope he’s not a twat.

“Thank you, Sir.”

The butler escorts me out and then leaves me at the doorway with instructions for Monday morning.

I turn to leave and a little girl runs into me, making me trip and fall over into the gravel. I still manage to catch her just before she tumbles to the ground and she lands on my chest instead. I get up, wincing at the sudden pain in my left leg, then check if she’s fine.

“You all right, little one?” I ask and she stares back at me with big dark eyes. Her red dress is all dirty, covered in mud and with grass stains all over it. There are leaves and a small twig in her hair. She looks a mess, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright, like she was having the time of her life, tumbling around and playing.

“I’m not little,” she says, her tone superior and her nose up in the air. 

I chuckle and kneel down to brush her knees gently; they’re all dusty, but there’s no blood on them.

“Here you go, duck, just a bit of dirt,” I tell her.

“Mordelia!” a tall and lanky young man runs towards us and as soon as he sees me, he shouts, “get your dirty hands off my little sister, you brute!”

“Oi, no need to shout! I was just trying to help her,” I reply angrily.

When he gets closer, I realise two things:

  1. That I’m probably in deep shit, because his posh and expensive clothes only mean one thing. He must be Mr Grimm’s son and my future employer.
  2. How incredibly good-looking he is. His dark hair is falling in soft waves around his beautiful face. He has delicate, almost pouty lips and his grey eyes remind me of winter storms, of the sky when the sea is choppy and the wind is so strong that it blows your bad thoughts away.



Fuck.

**Baz**

He’s just staring at me with his mouth wide open, still kneeling down in front of Mordelia. He probably thought she was one of the servants’ offspring, considering how dirty and wild she looks. Her dress is completely ruined; my step-mother will not be impressed.

I catch my breath and walk closer to them and that’s when I realise how absolutely breath-taking he is. Freckles and moles scattered on his golden skin, stunning blue eyes (I wonder how such a boring shade of blue can look so marvellous), bronze curls that bounce on his head as soon as he gets up. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap at him, “do you realise that you were touching Mordelia Grimm?”

“I-I…I am s-sorry,” he stutters sheepishly.

“I ran into him and made him trip,” Mordelia says, looking vaguely guilty.

“Oh…” I say, losing my eloquence. I look at him again and find my eyes roaming over his body, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows, showing strong freckled arms, his broad shoulders and impressive Adam’s apple.

“I’m Simon Snow,” he says, holding his hand out to me. And I’m paralysed, because no one has ever been this direct with me. His clothes suggest that he’s a servant, possibly one of the new ones (we’ve lost so many during the war), but I don’t remember him and I’m sure I would remember someone so stunning.

Mordelia looks at him, then at me and raises her eyebrow.

I grab his hand and shake it briefly and it’s so warm that I wish I could just grab more of him, run my hands over his skin, pull him closer.

“Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” I say in a voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.

When I let go, I look at my fingers and realise that there’s a bit of blood on them. I gasp and Mordelia starts fretting, grabbing my hand and looking pale and scared.

“Baz, what happened?” she asks, “how did you get cut? We must take you inside to Vera and call the doctor.”

“Oh, sorry, it’s me!” says Snow, tilting his arm and showing a cut just under his wrist, “I probably cut myself when I fell over.”

I exhale in relief and then stare at him as he raises his arm and licks away the blood, his pink tongue darting out and swiping across his skin indecently, his eyes still locked with mine. I swallow loudly, unable to avert my gaze.

**Simon**

He’s looking at me funny. And he freaked out about a little droplet of blood (his sister was panicking); how posh are they? Did he not fight in the war? He looks about the same age as me.

“I’m going to be the new gamekeeper,” I tell him, because no one is saying anything and the silence is making me uncomfortable.

His eyes open wide and he continues staring at me, until we hear a female voice calling from the distance. We turn and two young ladies appear, walking towards us.

“Miss Mordelia, look at your dress!” says one of the girls; she’s wearing glasses and her skin is the colour of caramel. Her clothes don’t look particularly expensive, but she’s still neat and clean. She looks furious, “you haven’t finished your Greek lesson, we need to go back and complete it, before you have your lunch.”

“But Miss Penny, Greek is boooring,” the little girl complains, rolling her eyes.

“I can’t really blame you, Mordelia,” says the other lady. She looks like a creature from a fairy tale, her long blonde hair like silk and her soft brown eyes land on Sir Basilton and don’t seem to want to move. Her hand goes for his arm and he flinches (seriously, what’s wrong with him?) and then moves away. She looks upset, but she hides it quickly.

“Lady Wellbelove, I think it is time for you to go home,” he says without even looking at her, his eyes still locked with mine, “I believe your carriage is awaiting.”

“Will you accompany me, then?” she asks, sounding hopeful and he looks annoyed, but agrees.

“Snow,” he says to me, his voice deep and his tone superior, and I nod.

**Baz**

I can’t stand her.

I can’t stand her coquettish mannerism, her constant efforts to touch me, her smiles and flirtatious comments. I know I’m supposed to court her (that’s what Father expects), but I just can’t wait for my parents to move to France to find an excuse to break things off.

I just want to be on my own. It’s bad enough that Mordelia is staying until the beginning of autumn (four more months, God help me) and Miss Penelope with her, because she still needs her lessons.

I just want some peace and quiet.

I will never have the life that I want, but at least I could be on my own and suffer in peace.

Now that I found out that I have the most handsome gamekeeper, I can just stare at him and masturbate whilst thinking of his breath-taking eyes and glorious arms.

I wonder what it feels like to kiss someone like him (or just to kiss someone).

I guess I will never find out.

**Simon**

Shep’s letter arrives on Saturday, but I only get it on Monday morning, as I’m leaving the inn where I was staying.

He’s back in Omaha and has found a job, but he still hasn’t managed to find his mother. It’s incredible how many people you lose because of a bloody war, both the ones who die and those who end up somewhere else. I will reply when I settle down in my new home; he will be happy to find out that I got Gareth’s old job. I think Gareth would be happy too.

I pack my bag and leave, walking my way to Pitch Manor. It’s early, but the late spring sun is already up. My bag’s light over my shoulder, I don’t have much, just a few clothes and a handful of pictures. I don’t have any of Ebb, nor my parents or my friends.

I carry the rest of my baggage in my broken heart.

**Baz**

I’m having breakfast, when the butler comes in to bring a letter from my aunt.

“Is the new gamekeeper arriving this morning?” I ask before he leaves, feigning a lack of interest in the man who I haven’t stopped thinking about for the past few days.

“Yes, he should be here by seven,” Nigel replies, “I am going to instruct him on his job and get him settled in the cottage, sir Basilton.”

“I will do it,” I say, surprising even myself with my unusual decision. Nigel stares at me and doesn’t seem to know what to reply.

“Very well, Sir Basilton,” he says after a minute. He probably thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not missing out on an opportunity to talk to Snow.

He’s been on my mind since the day I first met him. Stuck there, driving me insane with the memory of his curls, his blue eyes and his terrible manners. I bet he smells amazing, like a real man (and not fake, like stupid cologne or flowery perfumes, like all the people surrounding me).

It’s a lovely sunny day and I put a velvet jacket on, over my shirt. It’s a light periwinkle blue, and I chose it because it reminded me of his eyes. When I get out, he’s already there, waiting with a small bag over his shoulder.

He seems surprised to see me, looks around to check if anyone else is coming to greet him, then his back stiffens and his hand scratches the back of his neck as I walk to him.

“Morning, Sir,” he says, his eyes avoiding mine for a minute and then finally meeting my gaze, as if they gave up.

“Good morning, Snow,” I answer, “is that all you’ve got?”

His mouth curls down and his furrowed brows make me realise too late that I’ve probably offended him.

“I don’t own much, Sir Basilton,” he shrugs, “I never have.”

I’m left speechless by his candid confession and I wish I could take my comment back, because it has already soured this bright Monday morning, but then his expression changes and he smiles at me and my heart seems to melt. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than his smiling face.

“All I need is this broken body of mine and this stubborn head,” he says knocking it with his knuckles.

“Why broken?” I ask, without thinking, as I gesture to follow me to the woods. He walks a few feet away from me and looks around, his fingers brushing against the thick bark of an oak, then running through the tall grass, protecting his eyes from the sunlight that filters through the leaves above.

“I got wounded in the war,” he finally answers.

I don’t normally talk to servants, but I want to ask him a million questions, find out what his story is, what brought him to me, and how I get to keep him. He’s a man of few words, but I want to pry them all out of him.

“Where did you fight?” I ask, slowing down my pace, trying to get this conversation to last for as long as I can.

“France first, then they moved us to Belgium.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my questions. His face is serene as we walk down the path, checking his surroundings.

“Where did you get injured?”

“Passchendaele,” he answers and his voice drops when he says that name, his mouth tight.

I’ve heard about it, read that name in the papers. Of course, for me that’s all the war was, words on paper. A few photos. People leaving and not coming back or returning and not being the same. My aunt Fiona lost her fiancé. Rhys got a bullet through his spine and is now crippled, forced to use a chair.

“Our old gamekeeper died in the war,” I say, “I think it was over there.”

He’s walking slightly ahead of me and he suddenly stops, then stares at me with those bottomless blue eyes. His eyebrows quiver, furrow and then a shadow seems to slide across his face.

“He did,” he simply says and then starts walking again. 

We reach the small dark stone cottage and I realise it’s in a terrible state. I thought Father had ordered to get it fixed before the new gamekeeper’s arrival.

He looks around and finally his smile returns, as he puts the bag down in front of the door and walks around the small building.

“I’m quite sure my father asked for it to be fixed before your arrival,” I call out when he disappears behind the corner, “I will find out what happened and make sure you get some help.”

“No need to,” he says, “I can get it sorted.”

He gestures at the front door and asks, “may I?”

I find the keys in my pocket and hand them to him, making sure that our fingers touch, craving to feel the heat of his skin against mine again. His fingertips are rough and I wonder what it would feel like to have them making their way down my body, marking me, making me his.

I shudder, slapping myself mentally, because what the hell am I thinking about? Fantasising about my gamekeeper. How desperate am I?

I follow him inside and the small cottage is dark. It’s just one big room, with a fireplace, a bed and a table. There’s a small chest of drawers in the corner and some pots and pans hanging from the wall. It’s so bare that I feel mortified at the thought of him living here, but he turns and smiles at me.

“It’s lovely,” he says and I grimace, because this is the furthest away from ‘lovely’ I have ever experienced in my life.

“I will ask Vera to bring you some food and fresh linen. Let her know if you need anything else,” I say, turning to go, but then I remember something, “do you want the dog?”

“Dog?” he asks, tilting his head, looking hopeful.

“Our old gamekeeper had a dog. It’s a Springer Spaniel,” I explain, “it lost its marbles when Gareth went to war, but then his old father came to replace him and the dog got attached to him. When he died last month, we didn’t know what to do with the animal anymore, it’s heartbroken.”

“Buckle…” Snow whispers and I stop and stare at him.

How on earth does he know the dog’s name?

“Wait, how do you know?” I ask, intrigued by the way his eyes leave mine and start wondering around the room, his fingers going for his curls again, while he bites on his bottom lip.

He shrugs.

Silence.

I suddenly lose my temper, because this man is bloody infuriating. Can he not answer a simple question? How difficult is it?

I straighten my back and ask him again; in the most authoritative tone I can muster.

“How do you know the dog’s name, Snow?” my tone is glacial.

He clenches his jaw and glares at me.

“I knew Gareth,” he replies and then his mouth seals shut.

**Simon**

I knew him

I fought with him.

I ate, and I sat, and I cried and I laughed with him. Day after day, night after endless night in the trenches. He told me about Pitch Manor, about his little house in the woods, his dog, about days in the sun and the birds singing in the trees.

Until the day the Germans started sending grenades and one caught him.

He died in my arms. I held him until the light went out of his green eyes. I held him for what felt like days, until his body was cold and stiff. I kept the rats away from him. I let the rain wash his face clean. Until Shep found me.

It’s always Shep finding me. Saving me.

“Oh, brother,” he whispered to me, “I’m so sorry.”

He gently took him, moved my frozen hands, took care of him. Of me.

“Do you want the dog or not?” Sir Basilton asks, pulling me out of my memories.

“Yes,” I answer.

I want Buckle. Gareth would have liked me to look after his dog and I’ve always wanted a pet.

I hate being alone.

**Baz**

He’s gone mute again and I don’t think I’ll get him to reveal anything else about himself.

I quickly explain what will be expected of him and he listens without looking me in the eyes.

“I will come back this afternoon to show you around,” I tell him, my hand on the door, “get settled and have some food. I will send Vera straight away.”

He nods and mutters a thank you.

Frankly, this man has no manners.

And yet…

Yet, all I want is to crack that hard shell that he’s built around himself, to find out what he’s hiding.

**Simon**

A loud bark and then a soft knock on the door make me jump.

I open the door and a tiny woman with silver hair is waiting with a basket in her hand, a gentle smile on her face.

“Mr Snow?” she asks, while the dog runs around excitedly and barks his greeting to me.

“Please, call me Simon,” I tell her, kneeling down and offering my hand to Buckle, who sniffs it and then proceeds to lick it and bury his face in my arms, making me laugh.

“If that’s not love at first sight,” says the lady, looking amused, “I’m Vera and this is Buckle.” 

Vera gives me fresh linen that smells like lavender and is so soft that I can’t stop touching it (I’ve never owned anything so nice and I’m afraid of ruining it). She gives me bread, cheese, some jam and a bottle of wine.

“There’s a small plot of land behind the cottage, where I’ve been growing fruit and vegetables,” she says, “it’s yours. Please take anything you want.”

“Thank you,” I say, overwhelmed by her kindness.

“It used to be Gareth’s. I kept it for him, hoping he would come back, then it felt wrong to let it all go to rot,” she shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes.

“He told me about you,” I confess and her eyes open wide.

“You knew him?” she asks and I nod.

“He always spoke very kindly of you. Said you were like a second mother to him.”

Vera’s hand grabs mine and she lets out a loud sob, covering her face with her wrinkled hand.

“Bless him,” she whispers, “and bless you, my boy.”

**Baz**

By the time I get back to the woods the sun has disappeared under a blanket of grey clouds and the cold wind makes me shiver in my light jacket.

Snow is working on the cottage, fixing the window and hammering on a piece of wood. He seems to be doing a good job and he’s unaware of my arrival, softly singing a song that I don’t know, slightly out of tune.

“Snow,” I call him and he turns and smiles a genuine smile at me.

His eyes shine and his pink lips reveal white teeth, a sprinkling of freckles on his nose. Three moles on his right cheek, two below his left ear, one over his left eye. 

That’s when the realisation hits me.

I want to know what his skin and his lips feel like.

I realise with a shudder that I want him.

I want my gamekeeper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shiny thank you to my amazing betas a href=" https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire"> Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis). Your support and enthusiasm for this fic have kept me going and I will forever be grateful.  
> Additional thanks to [ imhellakitty ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imhellakitty/), for helping me with this chapter.

_“A heart that’s full up like a landfill_

_A job that slowly kills you_

_Bruises that won’t heal._

_You look so tired, unhappy_

_Bring down the government_

_They don’t, they don’t speak for us._

_I’ll take a quiet life_

_A handshake of carbon monoxide_

_With no alarms and no surprises.”_

_Radiohead, “No surprises”_

**Simon**

The dog starts barking like mad and I turn, the hammer still clutched in my hand.

He’s standing there, all tall and lanky, his expensive clothes fluttering in the wind and a troubled look in his grey eyes. His skin is so pale that I wonder if he’s unwell. Gareth said something about him being ill, but I can’t remember exactly what. So many memories lost, entire days gone because of the shell shock.

“Snow,” he says, clearing his voice, “you’re keeping yourself busy.”

“I wanted to get the cottage fixed before it gets dark,” I explain.

I put the hammer down and get my hat from the wooden chair I have placed outside. I can already picture myself sitting here in the sunset, Buckle at my feet, a mug with warm milk in my hands, and I can’t help but smile.

“What are you smiling about?” he asks, as I walk towards him. I shrug and that seems to irritate him.

What’s his problem?

**Baz**

Why can’t he answer a simple question?

I take him around the land, showing him the clearing where I want him to plant new trees, taking him to the small lake and telling him that I want game and pheasants to roam the land again. They disappeared during the war; too many starving people trespassing into our lands to find some food.

“I want you to check the walls around the woods. There shan’t be any gaps,” I order, “I want my land to be shut off from the world. I want this wood to be untouched.”

He nods and looks around, without a word. He probably thinks I’m out of my mind or that I’m mean. I just want to be on my own. Now that my parents have finally left, I am just waiting for Mordelia to go too and I can finally be alone in the house I have inherited from my mother. It’s mine and no one will take it away from me, whether I marry or not (and I have no intention of marrying Lady Wellbelove, as my father wants me to).

I just want peace and quiet. No one to bother me and to try to convince me to produce an heir. The house of Pitch can die with me.

On the way back, he starts limping. It’s barely noticeable, but I’ve been staring at him since this morning and he’s walking right in front of me.

“What’s with your leg?” I ask and he stops. He turns and his eyes show worry as he takes his hat in his hand and starts fiddling with it.

“A war wound, Sir,“ he says, “but I can do this job. I can guarantee that I am more than able to do it.”

“I wasn’t doubting that,” I say, suddenly ill at ease, “I was just curious.”

He seems to relax and he puts his hat back on, his gaze still avoiding mine.

“I got a bullet through my leg,” he explains, his eyes cast down, as he resumes walking, “and one through my chest.”

“At the same time?” I ask, wanting to know more.

No one ever wants to talk about the war. People carry their wounds and their stories buried somewhere deep and inaccessible. They want to forget or they think the rest of the world wants to forget. But I just want to know.

Because I couldn’t go. And I feel like half a man because of it. A coward.

I read every single article in the newspaper, listened to the conversations the servants were having behind my back, about letters from the front, about sons and nephews and grandsons. Safe, injured, dead, lost.

I want to know what happened to him. How did he get two bullets through his beautiful body? Who maimed him, how much did it hurt, did he nearly die?

“First I was shot in my leg” his back stiffens as I walk after him, “The day after in my chest.”

“The day after?” I ask, frowning. What was he still doing out there, with a bullet in his body?

“It took them a while to find me,” he simply says and I’m more confused than before. The wind picks up and dark clouds start covering the sky.

“We should hurry back, before it starts raining,” he says and I just follow him back to the cottage, a million questions in my head, my eyes glued to his back. I want to hold out my hand, stretch my fingers until they are buried in his shirt. Grab it and pull him closer to me, to smell him and taste him.

I have lost my marbles. He’s a gamekeeper, for God’s sake!

He turns and his blue eyes finally lock with mine, sad and unreadable. I swallow loudly.

I want him so badly.

**Simon**

The first few days go by and I settle in my new home. Buckle is a dream come true; he even snuggles with me at night and keeps me warm, making me feel safe.

Sir Basilton comes around at least once a day to check on my progress (I think he doesn’t trust me). He came once with his sister and her governess and once accompanied by Lady Wellbelove. She was riding a horse, elegant and perfect, her blonde long hair in a complex hairstyle, but he was on foot. Strange.

It’s the first time I have a house for myself. I grew up in a crowded orphanage, then lived with other boys who worked at the colliery with me, then with Ebb at Watford Manor. Then in the trenches. Then the hospital.

“Mr Snow?” I jump and my hand slips, dropping the hammer and nearly hitting my finger. My heart starts beating madly in my chest and I try to take deep breaths to calm down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!” says Miss Penelope getting closer, her long mauve skirt making a swishing noise through the tall grass. “I was going to take Miss Mordelia for a walk this afternoon. We were going to paint some flowers and I was wondering if you could recommend any good spot.”

“There’s a field full of wild flowers, down by the lake,” I answer, “I can take you there, if you want.”

“That would be marvellous,” she replies with a smile.

She sits down on a tree stump and we chat for a while. Talking to her feels natural, like I’ve known her for years. She tells me a lot about her, how she grew up with her parents in a tiny and crowded house in London and why she decided to become a teacher, then got employed by Mr Grimm to be Mordelia’s governess.

“She’s moving to France with the rest of the family at the beginning of autumn,” she sighs, “they want me to go with them, but I’m not sure.”

“France is not bad,” I say, “not that I saw the nice part of it.”

“I have never travelled, so it would be a chance to go somewhere new,” she says, her fingers playing with the grass, “but at the same time, I don’t want to leave my country.”

I keep on working on the fence that I will need for the pheasant chicks. I can’t wait for them to arrive; they’re going to be so soft.

“Anyway, where are you from?” she asks, a loose strand of her thick curly hair covering her face because of the wind. She brushes it back and smiles at me, “you have an odd accent that I can’t place.”

“Here and there,” I shrug, “I grew up in Yorkshire, but then moved down south.”

Her kind smile warms me up and I feel like I can ask her a few questions too. There’s something that has been bugging me, like an itch at the back of my head that I can’t seem to scratch.

“Sir Basilton,” I start and she tilts her head, “did he not go to war?”

“He did not,” she replies, getting up and straightening her skirt, “the doctor would not allow it, even though he wanted to.”

She looks ill at ease, and I feel sorry because I didn’t want to upset her, but her smile is soon back on her round pretty face.

“I will be back later with Miss Mordelia,” she declares and then bids her farewell.

So, he didn’t go to war. Is that why he keeps on asking me questions about it?

**Baz**

I’ve started taking a daily walk to the woods, either in the morning or in the afternoon (sometimes both, because I’m pathetic). The official excuse is to check the progress of Snow’s work, but I actually just want to see him, talk to him. The servants and Mordelia have started eyeing me suspiciously, but I don’t care. It’s my woods and my gamekeeper and I can do whatever I please.

Snow doesn’t seem to mind; he carries on with his tasks and just mumbles his replies to my questions.

“Do you have any family?” I ask, sitting on his chair, just outside of his cottage. He’s chopping wood and he’s sweating profusely and I am just waiting for him to decide to lower those braces and take off his shirt.

“No,” he answers, wiping his forehead with the back of his freckled hand.

“No parents?” he shakes his head and I wait in silence, hoping that he will elaborate. I want to shout at him to use his words, but I’ve learnt that if I get annoyed, he will just clam up and that will be the end of our conversation.

“They left me at an orphanage in Sheffield when I was a baby,” he finally says after a good ten minutes. My eyes open wide and I don’t know how to reply. For once I’m the one who is speechless.

“Cat got your tongue?” he teases me, a smirk curling up his lovely lips as he casts a glance in my direction. I frown, affronted, and sit up straighter, but he tilts his head and adds, “Sir.”

He is so infuriating. I would dismiss him, if it weren’t for the fact that I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

“I have lost my mother,” I declare after a few minutes, “she died when I was five.”

He stops chopping wood and puts his hatchet down, unbuttoning the top of his shirt (finally) and showing more freckles and moles.

“How did she die?” he asks.

No ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, nor ‘that must have been hard for you’. He’s so direct that he cuts like a blade.

“She was killed in a fire,” I answer, “it is still unclear whether it was intentional or not, but someone set fire to the stables and she was there, feeding the horses.”

His blue eyes lock with mine and he rolls up his sleeves. My eyes lower and land on his strong arms, the golden skin and sparse hair.

“Ebb was like a mother to me. It hurt a lot when she died.”

“Who is Ebb?” I ask, my gaze locking with his again. He starts chopping wood, his curls damp with sweat.

“She used to be the goatherd at Watford. Her father was the gamekeeper,” he explains, “when he died, I took over and helped her. I went back to Watford after the war, but she had died too. Pneumonia.”

I think our conversation has come to an end and I shall probably go back, when he stills and comes closer, standing in front of me.

“Can I ask you a question, Sir?” he mumbles, his eyes looking at anywhere but my face.

“You may,” I reply, sounding cool and composed but feeling a storm in my stomach. It’s the first time he’s shown any interest in finding out something about me.

“Why did you not go to war?” he asks.

I stare at him, my eyes wide and mouth agape, then my usual composure slides back into place and I blink a few times. I’m tempted to tell him that it’s not his place to ask such questions and he should be flogged for his impudence, but there’s a part of me that wants to open up to him. Hoping that he will do the same and tell me more about himself. And I can’t shake off the happiness that came with him showing some interest in me.

“Because I’m ill,” I eventually reply, “the doctor did not deem me fit for war.”

He blushes and his mouth opens and then closes, like a fish out of water. He looks like he’s struggling to say what’s on his mind and I realise he probably wants to ask me more, but he’s worried of the consequences.

“Do you want to know what’s wrong with me?” I ask, teasing him (it’s my turn now) and he nods. “Maybe if you ask kindly enough, I will tell you.”

His face turns crimson and he starts stuttering and scratching his neck.

“P-p-please?” he says and I suddenly feel bad for putting him on the spot and making him stammer.

“I have a blood clotting disease,” I reply, before he can embarrass himself further, “my blood is too thin and if I get serious cuts or bruises, they would not heal properly and I could die.”

“Oh…” he says and then adds, “is that why you don’t ride a horse with your fiancée?”

“Yes,” I reply, annoyed, “and Lady Wellbelove is not my fiancée.”

He shrugs and goes back to his task, looking like he’s mulling things over.

I stay for a while longer, but he doesn’t take his shirt off and he doesn’t ask me anything else.

**Simon**

He’s following me around.

At first, I thought he was checking on my work, but I’ve noticed that he doesn’t even pay attention to what I’m doing (I chopped wood for two hours straight last week and he didn’t even ask me what for).

I tried moving around the woods, finding jobs to do in different places, but he always manages to find me and then ask me a million questions. I even went to the furthest end of the property yesterday, with the excuse of checking the walls around it, and after an hour or so he appeared in all his posh glory.

“Afternoon, Snow,” he said, a little out of breath, “what are you having for lunch today?”

Does he have a telescope that he uses to find me, staring at the horizon like a pirate?

He’s plotting something, but I have no idea what.

**Baz**

My feet are sore.

I need to buy more comfortable boots to keep up with him.

**Simon**

I set up early, because I’ve noticed a part of the wall surrounding the property has collapsed, right next to the main gate.

I don’t expect him to appear until at least mid-morning (I think he likes sleeping until late) and my mind is full of thoughts of him. Of his dark hair and stormy eyes, his voice like a soothing melody, talking to me whilst my hands are busy, keeping my mind grounded. I think less about the bad stuff, when he’s around.

I actually like that.

I’m so distracted that I don’t notice the horse until it’s right in front of me and I stumble, terrified, landing with my arse in the gravel. The animal neighs loudly and I just stare at it, unable to move, until the lady who is riding it calms it down and moves to the other side of the path.

“There, there,” she says, patting its white back with gloved hands, “we just got a bit scared. Nothing to worry about.”

I realise it’s Lady Wellbelove. Her golden hair is in a long intricate plait sitting long and heavy on her back. She’s wearing blue trousers and a light cream jacket. She looks like a princess, like one of those perfect figurines that I once saw at Watford Manor, sitting on a shelf and pretending to dance or pick flowers.

“I didn’t mean to scare your horse, your Ladyship,” I say, getting up and taking my hat off, “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t see you either,” she says smiling, “are you the new gamekeeper?”

“Yes,” I reply, “I’m Simon Snow.”

“Snow,” she says, her lips curling up in a charming smile, “a cold surname that reminds me of my least favourite season. I shall remember that.”

“No need to,” I mutter, “I’m just a gamekeeper.”

She takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs her forehead with it. It’s a white and delicate piece of fabric, with intricate lace all around it and a few letters embroidered in red. I stare at it and realise it’s not her initials, but Sir Basilton’s.

“When I become Lady Pitch,” she says, setting her horse back in motion, “I shall know all of my servants’ names.”

I tilt my head and she leaves, making her way to the Manor.

I thought he said they were not engaged.

**Baz**

She’s here again.

I tried to talk to her, to make her understand that I have no interest in marrying her (nor anyone else, for the matter), but she doesn’t seem to get it. I think she stole one of my handkerchiefs the other day.

“And then Niall said that he didn’t want anyone to bother him while he was in Italy with Dev,” she says, eating a strawberry, “can you believe that, Baz?”

I hum, because I wasn’t even listening. We’re sitting in the garden; the sun is shining and it’s pleasantly warm. The bees are buzzing, flying around the camellias in full bloom and I am just dying to go and find him.

“I’m quite busy today,” I say, standing up, hoping that she gets the message.

“What are your plans for the day?” she asks with a smile.

“I need to supervise the new gamekeeper,” I answer, putting my hat on.

“Oh,” her face falls, “that sounds boring. He was near the front gate, when I arrived. He got scared of my horse.”

“Well, I’m afraid that I need to go now.”

She stands up and brushes away non-existent crumbs from her trousers.

“Maybe you can accompany me on my way out, then,” she states, holding her hand out for me to take.

I begrudgingly comply, thinking that at least I know where he is and I don’t have to go and find him with my telescope.

**Simon**

“Bugger!” I shout, the heavy stone refusing to fall into place, as I sweat and struggle to lift it.

“Such crude language,” says a female voice behind me and I let the stone fall to the ground with a loud noise, turning to see who is approaching.

They are both so stunning, like an illustration from a book. He looks like a charming prince, leading his princess on his white horse (except that he’s on foot and she’s the one riding it). I suddenly feel a pang of jealousy rising in my chest, like a burning lump in my throat, and I can’t even explain why, what exactly I’m jealous of.

“I apologise for swearing, your Ladyship.”

Sir Basilton looks annoyed and glares at me.

“No need to apologise, Snow.”

“Well, I shall see you tomorrow,” she says, her cheeks slightly pink as she looks down at him. But he’s staring at me and ignoring her.

“I told you, I’m quite busy,” Sir Basilton says and her pretty face crumbles, “I don’t have time for you.”

“Oh,” she whispers and I can see that she’s about to cry, but she bids her farewell with a shaky voice and then leaves at full speed. I watch her horse disappear down the country road and then turn to glare at him.

“There was no need to be so harsh! She’s in love with you,” I tell him and immediately regret raising my voice and forgetting who I am talking to. His eyes are on fire and his nostrils are flaring as he gets closer to me.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” he hisses, his finger stabbing my chest, “I could have you removed from my property by lunch time and throw you in the middle of the street for such impudence!”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” I stutter, “it won’t happen again.”

He seems to calm down, his features relaxing and going back to his composed demeanour, but he doesn’t move and is still so impossibly close that his intoxicating smell is making me go soft at the knees. I’ve never been so close to anyone this beautiful before and I can’t stop staring at his dark eyelashes, so long and delicate, and his pink pouty lips. His skin is really pale, not a single freckle or mole. Not a bruise or a scar in sight, like one of these marble statues, so smooth and perfect.

“I won’t forget my place,” I say calmly, “Sir.”

He nods and then moves, but instead of going back to the Manor, he sits on the grass and starts staring at me, picking on some daisies.

“Tell me more about Yorkshire,” he demands.

**Baz**

I feel unsettled all afternoon, roaming around the house aimlessly, walking around the gardens and then struggling to eat. Playing the violin usually helps, but not this time.

I hated shouting at him this morning, but when he came to her defence, I suddenly lost control.

In the late afternoon, I leave the house, thinking that maybe seeing him and clearing the air will settle my mood. I see Vera exiting the servants’ quarters with a small basket in her hand.

“Good evening, Vera,” I say with a smile, “where are you heading?”

“Good evening, Sir,” her eyes warm up when she sees me, “I was going to take this to Simon. A letter arrived for him this morning, but I didn’t get a chance to hand it to him.”

She shows me the white envelope, all creased and rough, like it has passed a million hands. The perfect excuse to go and see him.

“I’ll give it to him,” I declare, holding my hand out, looking cool even though her eyes are studying me, burning a hole through my composure. She can always read me like an open book.

“Very well, Sir,” she says, handing it to me.

I clutch it tightly in my hand, examining it on my way down the path to the woods. It’s coming from America, a place called Omaha.

Does Snow have a lover there?

Is it a friend? He doesn’t have any family, so I doubt that it’s a distant relative.

When I get to the cottage, I notice he has hung his wet clothes on the lines, the smell of cheap soap still lingering in the air. I can hear the noise of water splashing from behind the house, where the well is. He must still be doing the laundry.

The dog barks and comes to greet me, so I kneel down and let it lick my hand, patting his head and giving him a good scratch behind the ears.

“Good boy,” I tell him, when he starts wagging his tail and sits down next to the door.

“Buckle?” calls Snow’s muffled voice, “another fox?”

I walk around the cottage and then stop in my tracks when I see him. He’s shirtless, wearing just a pair of brown velveteen breeches, which are sitting low on his hips. He’s washing himself, his curls dripping water down his back as he spreads soap onto his chest and under his armpits, scrubbing and then rinsing his golden skin, unaware of my gaze on his body. 

His chest is covered in scars, a big white gash, like a crater just under his right nipple, other smaller ones all around it. He has older marks too; they look faint and the colour is fading and darkening. When he turns, I notice white lines across his back, almost silvery. They remind me of wings, and I wonder how he got them.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, taking it all in. How breathtakingly beautiful he is, how alive he looks. His body is a map of the life he’s lived, of all the wounds he’s suffered, a testament to his pain and healing.

He suddenly turns and sees me, his eyes open wide and he grabs a towel to cover his chest, over the massive scar.

“Sir B-Basilton,” he stammers and I struggle to find the words for once, my tongue is stuck to my palate and my mouth has gone dry.

I remember the letter and hand it to him, without a word, and then leave, my heart beating madly in my throat.

**Simon**

He must have thought I look absolutely disgusting.

I know my body is broken. It looks a complete mess.

And he is so perfect. I want to see him too. I don’t know why, but I just want to see what he looks like without his posh clothes on. All that pale soft skin, untouched.

**Baz**

I run back to my room and lock the door behind me. I sit on the bed, trying to catch my breath and then my eyes land on the big mirror.

I stand in front of it and start taking my clothes off.

Not a scar. Not a single cut, nor a bruise.

I look like a lifeless doll, my skin untouched. My blood rotten on the inside, preventing me from living a full life. I couldn’t even go to war, to die for my country like everyone else.

He must think I’m a spineless brat.

I close my eyes and try to remember how gorgeous he looked in the sunset, all wet and so alive and I feel a tear falling down my cheek.

I don’t simply want him.

I’m in love with him.

**Simon**

I don’t see him again until the afternoon. I spend the morning waiting for him and he never shows up, so I start worrying that he was embarrassed by my scars, which makes me think about how I got them in the first place and then my mood sours.

The pheasant chicks arrive just after lunch and I finally find a distraction, as I put them in their wooden crates. They are so soft and vulnerable, their tiny beaks chirping in a sweet and cheerful way.

Buckle starts barking and I don’t even turn (I know it’s _him_ ), because I don’t want him to see me smiling like an idiot.

“Good afternoon,” he says, squatting down next to me, “are these my new pheasants?”

“Yes,” I reply, “sweet little things.”

He nods and moves closer to me, our shoulders touching. He holds his hand out and I pick one chick up and place it in the palm of his hand, touching him for longer than necessary. His eyes lock with mine and he nearly drops the bird.

“Snow, I…” he whispers, sounding uncertain, all his cockiness gone, “about yesterday…”

“I know I look disgusting,” I say, averting my eyes, staring at the little fluffy creature in the palm of his hand, “I normally keep my scars hidden.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “that’s not…on the contrary…”

I don’t know what he means, so I turn and I see his furrowed brows and sad eyes. His lips are turned downwards and I have no idea what’s going on with him, all of a sudden.

I cup my hands and offer them to him, because his fingers are shaking and the little chick is chirping loudly. Instead of dropping it in my hand though, his fingers rest against mine. He lets go of the tiny creature, but his hands gently cup mine, and I don’t even know if he’s stroking the pheasant or if it’s me that he’s touching. His fingers are cold and I just want to wrap them in my warmth, to keep him safe.

“You must think I’m a coward,” he murmurs, “I couldn’t go to war. I couldn’t be a hero.”

“You’re wrong,” I say and I can feel him tensing, his shoulders stiffening next to mine (he’s not used to people telling him he’s wrong) but then I shake my head and my eyes lock with his. My smile is probably sad and broken, but I let it linger on my lips anyway.

“There were no heroes out there,” I say, “just a bunch of blokes dying in the mud.”

He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, then his fingers close around mine, his hand wrapping around my wrist.

“Truce?” he asks me, his little finger brushing against my thumb, his grey eyes lost in mine.

I didn’t even know that we were fighting, but I find myself nodding at him.

“Truce.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane Eyre, Baz gets an unexpected visitor, Simon and Baz go hunting and then have dinner together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the people who have left comments and kudos!  
> Lots of love and virtual hugs go to my wonderful betas [ Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis). You’re both amazing!

_“Limb by limb and tooth by tooth_

_Stirring up inside of me_

_Every day, every hour_

_Wish that I_

_Was bulletproof.”_

_Radiohead, “Bulletproof…I wish I was”_

**Simon**

The early summer sun is shining and the days are finally getting warmer. Buckle starts barking and I think it’s probably another bloody fox (they’ve been trying to get my pheasants, which are finally ready to be released into the woods). I finish eating my lunch and then head outside.

“Good afternoon, Snow.”

He’s lying in the grass, next to the crates with the birds, a book in his hands and my dog’s head in his lap.

“How long have you been there?” I ask, pulling my braces up, noticing how he’s eyeing me from under the tome still clutched in his hands. He’s always looking at me.

“Since Buckle started barking at me and then decided that he preferred trying to lick my face instead.”

I get the food and water for the birds and start feeding them, their chirping getting louder as I stroke their soft feathers. I’m going to miss looking after them.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

“Jane Eyre,” he answers, “have you ever heard of it?”

I shake my head and ask him what it’s about.

“It’s the story of this young woman called Jane, who ends up working as a governess for Mr Rochester and they fall in love.”

“He falls in love with his governess?” I ask and he lets the book fall onto his chest, propping himself up on his elbows and looking at me.

“Yes, he asks her to marry him.”

“Oh,” I answer, “she must be quite beneath him, if she’s a governess.”

He sits up and starts picking on some grass, his long elegant fingers looking pale in the sunshine.

“Love is love, don’t you think?” he murmurs, “you can’t really help who you fall in love with.”

I study him for a few seconds and I realise that his cheeks have gained a pink tinge and he’s sheepishly avoiding my gaze.

I sit down in front of him, crossing my legs, our feet barely touching.

“I wouldn’t know,” I answer, “I’ve never had a lover.”

“Never?” he asks, raising his head and making eye contact with me. I shake my head and his face colours even more, looking almost happy or hopeful. Maybe I’m imagining things.

“Me neither,” he mumbles and then straightens his back, “but I’m in love with someone.”

“Really?” I ask and my mind starts racing, wondering who he could be in love with, a strange pang of jealousy making my heart beat faster than normal. I want to ask him, but it would be inappropriate.

He said he was not engaged with Lady Wellbelove and I haven’t seen her in the past couple of weeks. He never talks about her and the only time I mentioned her, he got clearly annoyed, so I dropped it.

The strange thing is that there are never people around the Manor. I’ve been here for nearly two months and he’s never had any guests. It’s almost as if he enjoyed his loneliness. The peace and quiet. He seems content with the few people who surround him.

Then I think about his words, about the book that is sliding down his chest.

A governess. Falling in love with her employer.

“Oh,” I say, my eyes opening wide and he tilts his head, looking confused and a bit worried, when I draw my feet away from his.

I don’t think he was expecting me to figure out that he’s in love with Miss Penelope.

“B-but,” I start, my hands scratching the back of my neck as I feel my heart clenching in a painful way, “she told me yesterday that she was seriously considering moving to France. Are you going with her?”

His mouth opens and he raises an eyebrow, staring at me as if I had two heads.

“What are you talking about, Snow?”

“Miss Penelope,” I answer and he looks even more confused, “did you not know?”

“Snow, what on earth are you rambling about? I’m not in love with Miss Penelope!”

I feel relief washing over me, like a cool breeze on a hot day, and I snort, suddenly feeling the need to hug him, stupidly. I start laughing and he follows suit and it’s the first time I’ve heard the beautiful sound of his laughter, so I can’t help but blush and lean closer. I want to put my hand on his leg, touch his perfect porcelain skin, smell it.

I snap out of my madness when his fingers gently brush against my knee.

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks, his voice deep and gentle. He has been kinder to me, since he offered a truce.

“I don’t know,” I answer, “I try not to think about it.”

“Why?”

“I try not to dwell on the things that I cannot have,” I answer, “love is not for people who are struggling to get by, to find a roof over their heads or something edible to fill their plate.”

The smile dies on his lips and I feel bad for making him sad.

“Are you saying that love is a luxury?” he asks and I shrug.

“I’m sure I _can_ fall in love,” I answer, “but it’s just going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“You never know,” he answers, his fingers still moving over my trousers, distracting me, “you might find love when and where you least expect it. Don’t you want to get a wife and have children?”

I stare at his hand, pale against the dark fabric of my trousers.

“I don’t want children,” I answer after a few minutes, “I’m not putting anyone into this sick world. And I don’t need an heir like you.”

His hand stills and I look up, his grey eyes locked with mine.

“I don’t want an heir,” he says, his voice strong, “and I don’t want a wife either.”

We stare at each other in silence for a while, until Buckle decides that he’s had enough of our odd mood and starts pulling at my sleeve, wanting to play.

I get up, but Sir Basilton stays where he is, his eyes fixed on the hand that was touching me.

**Baz**

Nigel knocks on the door of my study and finds me looking outside of the window, towards the woods.

“I beg your pardon, Sir,” he says with an uncertain voice, “but you have a visitor.”

I turn and raise an eyebrow. Who on earth could have come to bother me, uninvited? If it’s Lady Wellbelove again, I am going to seriously lose my temper. I sent her a letter a month ago, telling her clearly that I have no intention of marrying her, that she should find a more suitable match.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Lady Fiona,” Nigel replies, aware of my mood, but then relaxes when he sees my expression soften.

Fiona is always welcome.

I find her sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea in her hand, her little finger sticking out as her red lipstick stains the fine porcelain.

“Took you long enough to come and greet me,” she mutters when I sit down next to her. She kisses me softly on the cheek and gently tucks one of my locks behind my ear.

“How are you, Basil?”

“Fine, what about you?”

“Fucking bored out of my wits.” 

I chuckle and she starts telling me about her life in London, the plays she has watched, all the latest gossip that I couldn’t care less about, but it’s still interesting to hear from her.

When she finishes her tea and shortbread, she studies me for a few minutes and then pats my knee.

“You look good,” she says, “it’s a good job your father finally decided to fuck off to France.”

I nod, because I am finally free and life has become such a relief. No more of Daphne’s fussing or mollycoddling, no more impositions or expectations. Father still sends me letters, reminding me of my duties, but it’s so much easier to ignore them now that there’s the English Channel between us. 

“It’s not just that, though,” Fiona says, observing me, “have you found a bloke, Basil?”

I try to hide my surprise, but she beams at my embarrassed expression and I end up blushing like a little girl.

“Who is he?” she asks, moving closer, “do I know him?”

“It’s my gamekeeper,” I answer, without thinking, just letting the words burst out of my mouth. Her eyes open wide, her mouth agape.

We stare at each other for a moment and then she starts laughing, throwing her head back.

“Oh, Basil,” she says, wiping away a few tears, “that was hilarious.”

I manage to smile and pretend that it was all a joke, whilst my heart is breaking inside my chest.

I want to go and see him.

I need him now.

**Simon**

It’s late afternoon when I meet him again, but he’s not alone.

I feel my back stiffen as they approach, wondering if the woman who’s holding his arm is the mysterious person that he’s in love with, but when they are close enough for me to properly see them, I relax. She’s much older than us and she looks so similar to him that she must be a relative.

I drop the spade that I was holding and take my hat off, tilting my head at her. She’s wearing one of those long tight skirts that make it impossible to walk properly (I wonder why women bother to wear them). Her hair is in a loose bun, a white streak making it stand out.

“Snow,” Sir Basilton says, his eyes never leaving mine, “this is Lady Fiona Pitch, my aunt.”

He’s looking at me like he wants to eat me, like he wants to get closer and touch me.

“Good afternoon, her Ladyship,” I say and she eyes me curiously, then looks at her nephew.

I don’t know if I’m allowed to continue digging the ground to plant the new trees, but Sir Basilton nods and I resume my work, his gaze burning holes through me, his eyes lingering on my open shirt and pulled up sleeves. I didn’t notice it at the beginning, because I was terrified of displeasing him and that he would dismiss me, but now I know that he’s always staring at me, at every inch of skin that I leave uncovered. And I end up doing it on purpose, unbuttoning my shirt, rolling up my sleeves, untucking my trousers. I’d do anything to have those grey eyes on me.

**Baz**

“I’ve seen your friends Niall and Dev last week,” Fiona says, pouring some more wine into her glass, “they’re back from their trip to Italy. You should invite them over. They asked me about you.”

I nod and think that I don’t really fancy seeing anyone, but I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to spend some time with them. I’m losing the plot here, constantly thinking about Snow, about how much I want him and how impossible it is to have him. I’ve started wondering if he wants me too, because I keep on catching him staring at me and he doesn’t even flinch anymore when I touch him. He used to behave like a scared rabbit, like he was afraid I would tell him off or hit him every time I got near him. Now he lets me brush my fingers against his wrist or rest my leg against his. He leans closer and lets me touch him, like he’s starving for affection.

But I know I’m just imagining things. There’s no way he could want me in the same way I want him.

“That gamekeeper of yours,” starts Fiona, her eyes shining maliciously in the dim evening light. I swallow and wait for the blow, “he seems to be good at his job.”

I let out a breath and she raises an eyebrow at me.

“He is strong and capable,” I reply and her lips curl up in a knowing way.

I think I’m digging my own grave.

**Simon**

The following morning Lady Fiona comes alone. This time she’s wearing a lovely green dress and a hat with peacock feathers that matches it.

I’m busy feeding the pheasants, but Buckle welcomes her with a loud bark that makes me jump.

“Your dog is very enthusiastic,” she says, sitting down on a tree stump and patting him on the head.

“He likes a good cuddle,” I reply, “but you don’t need to indulge him, Lady Pitch.”

She still continues stroking his fur and he lies on his back, showing his belly and waiting for her to give him a nice rub. He’s shameless.

“My nephew,” she says after a while, “does he come here often?”

I don’t know how to reply. How often is often? He usually comes once a day, sometimes twice. He stays for at least a couple of hours, but occasionally for the whole afternoon.

Is that too much?

Lord Mage hardly ever came to see me and Ebb, but that’s probably for the best, because when he did, it meant trouble. But it’s different with Sir Basilton.

I’ve realised that I’m waiting for him every day. That I get impatient if he’s late, that I’m happy when he stays for longer, that I long for his voice and his questions. That when he smiles, the world becomes brighter.

How do I put that into words? How do I answer Lady Pitch’s question without sounding like a moron?

“Sometimes,” I shrug, trying not to give away the feelings that even I don’t know how to describe.

She raises an eyebrow at me and she reminds me of him.

God, I miss him already.

**Baz**

“You should take Niall and Dev hunting in the woods,” Fiona says, packing her bags, “I’m sure there’s enough game now.”

“Hm,” I hum in response.

“You could go on a trip,” she suggests, her back to me, “there are plenty of nice men who would be happy to have a _liaison amoureuse_ with a good-looking and fascinating young man like you. Italy or Spain, maybe Greece.”

“Maybe,” I mutter, my gaze fixed on the window, searching the woods.

“Here,” she hands me a small parcel, wrapped in golden paper with a chrysanthemums pattern, “a present for you.”

I open it carefully and there’s a bottle with some clear liquid inside.

“Clove oil, directly from the East,” Fiona says with a mischievous smile on her face, “I’ve heard it’s perfect for intimate encounters.”

I feel my cheeks catching fire and she laughs at me, closing the suitcase.

I hold the bottle close to my chest.

I wish I could use it.

**Simon**

“Snow?” he calls me from the outside and I smile.

I’ve been waiting for him all day and I was starting to lose hope that I would see him today. The sun is setting and I’m cooking dinner, with Buckle asleep in front of the fire.

“In here!” I shout and his face appears at the door.

“May I come in?” he asks, all posh. I smile and nod.

“It’s your property, after all.”

“It’s your house,” he says, frowning. He’s so tall that he has to duck to avoid hitting his head on his way in. He looks around, examining the cottage and I realise it’s the first time he’s come inside since I’ve been living here. And it comes as a surprise that I like having him here. I always hated when Lord Mage came to visit us, it made my skin crawl. But with Sir Basilton it’s different.

He feels safe. He makes me feel safe.

“You’ve done a good job,” he says, putting his book on a chair and taking his jacket off, “it’s nice and cosy.”

“It’s the first time I have a place to myself,” I answer, stirring my soup, “and Vera gave me so many nice things. You can sit down; the chair won’t bite.”

He rolls his eyes and sits on a stool next to the fire, next to me, taking a peek at the pot that I’m stirring and humming in approval.

“My aunt has left,” he says after a while, “she is positively impressed with the work you’ve put into the woods.”

I keep my hands busy and nod. I never know what to say when people pay me compliments.

“She’s right, you know. You’ve done an excellent job.”

I want to turn and look at him, but I feel rooted to the spot, my cheeks warm and possibly red.

“Thank you,” I mutter under my breath.

“I’d like to go hunting tomorrow. Do you think there’s enough game?”

“Plenty of rabbits and hares,” I say, relieved by the change of topic, “the pheasants are nearly ready to be released. It will take longer for deer.”

“Would you come with me?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s asking me a personal favour. As if there was a chance of me saying no to him. Of me not wanting to steal more of his time.

“Of course,” I reply, moving to the table to slice some bread, “just come and get me when you’re ready.”

“Snow?”

I turn and finally look at him and his eyes are soft and concerned.

“You can say no. You don’t have to use your rifle either. I just wanted some company,” he pauses, then his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink, “I just wanted your company.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out, so I nod. I stand there, looking at this impossibly beautiful and unreachable man who wants to spend time with _me_ and my head goes up and down.

I feel like pinching myself.

He suddenly gets up and grabs his jacket.

“I must be off. Your dinner’s nearly ready,” he says and he’s already at the door, when he turns and smiles at me, “I will see you tomorrow, then.”

I realise after he’s left that his book is still on the chair.

Jane Eyre.

I will give it to him tomorrow.

**Baz**

I sit on the sofa and listen to Mordelia’s terrible attempts at playing the piano. She’s not even trying and looks supremely bored as Miss Penelope gives her instructions on how to improve. Pointless, my sister couldn’t care less about music.

Miss Penelope eventually gives up and sits down on the armchair opposite mine with a sigh.

“How is Jane Eyre coming along, Sir Basilton?”

“I have finished it,” I reply, “a charming read, I must say.”

“I knew you would enjoy it,” she says with a smile, “I would recommend Wuthering Heights next. If you don’t mind, may I borrow Jane Eyre? I would like to read it again.”

“You can certainly borrow it,” I reply and then freeze when I remember that I left it in Snow’s cottage earlier, “it’s upstairs in my room. I will give it to you tomorrow.”

I stand up and automatically go towards the window, staring outside into the darkness. The small light of his cottage is faint, but I can see it and it makes me wonder what he’s doing right now.

I can’t wait for tomorrow.

**Simon**

He turns up after lunch, his usual elegant clothes and bright colours abandoned for something more comfortable and tamer. The only thing that gets my attention is his scarf. It’s light blue and looks incredibly soft, wrapped around his neck. I realise I actually prefer him in the clothes he normally wears and I slap myself mentally. Why am I constantly thinking about him?

“Ready?” I ask and the smile he gives me makes me weak in the knees.

“Are we not taking your dog?” he asks, surprised, when I ask Buckle to stay and keep an eye on the pheasants.

“No, he wasn’t properly trained and he gets too excited. He scares the game.”

“I’ll leave my scarf in your cottage,” he says, “it’s rather warm outside and I don’t want to get it dirty.”

We walk alongside, following the path that starts from my cottage and goes deeper into the wood.

“Do you enjoy hunting?” he asks and I should remind him that if he wants to actually catch some game, he needs to be quiet. But I know what he’s like (relentless and always asking me questions) and besides, I like talking to him, so I shake my head and answer.

“I only do it if I need food. I don’t like using rifles after…you know…”

I swallow and catch his eyes straying on my Adam’s apple.

“After the war?” he asks and I nod, “I’m sorry I made you come. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all, I wanted to come with you.”

I feel a bit embarrassed by my own admission, but he looks genuinely happy about it.

“Besides, hearing gunshots in the distance makes me jump,” I admit, “it’s better if I am close and I know what’s going on.”

**Baz**

I want to ask him a million questions, but I know that the war is a sensitive topic and I don’t want him to leave. I notice that he’s limping slightly (he does sometimes) and I feel the burning need to find out more about it.

“Your scars,” I say tentatively, “do they hurt?”

He looks down at his leg and frowns.

“Some days are worse than others. Like when it rains.”

“Is it the humidity in the air?” He shrugs and ducks under a tree. The path is nearly gone and we’re now walking in the thick of the woods.

“Could be. It’s also my head.”

“You head?” I ask, confused.

“The rain…it reminds me of all the time we spent in the trenches, just waiting for something to happen. It reminds me of the mud.”

He says the word _mud_ with a northern accent. I’ve noticed he does that sometimes; his vowels shift and a melodious tone emerges, especially when he’s upset about something. His Yorkshire accent comes out and he sounds even more lovely than he usually does.

“It was raining when I got injured,” he says in a low voice, almost whispering.

“How did it happen?” I ask after a moment and then I notice that his fingers are trembling, that he’s tapping them alternatively on his thumb.

“We…we were launching an attack. I wasn’t in the front line,” he says, letting out a shuddering breath, “those who were all fell under German fire. I started running and everyone was screaming, a grenade exploded to my left and I suddenly felt pain and then I was on the ground, face in the mud.”

He pauses for a couple of minutes, his face turned the other way, his feet coming to a stop.

“It was late afternoon and I just waited. The wound was bleeding, so I put pressure on it and it was really painful, but I…I just waited. But they kept on shooting. And no one came.”

I walk closer to him and I can finally see his face, so pale, his eyes open wide. I want to take my question back, tell him that he doesn’t have to tell me anything else, that he’s fine now, that he’s safe. I open my mouth, but he speaks before me.

“There was a dead man right next to me,” he says in a voice that doesn’t even sound like his, “his face was stuck, as if he was screaming. I stared at him for the whole night, wondering what his name was.”

I feel my hand moving, of its own accord, lacing my fingers with his. He finally looks at me and his eyes soften.

“I waited and waited and the night just seemed endless,” he says, “then Shep found me in the morning.”

“Who is Shep?” I can’t help but ask, my thumb stroking his warm skin.

“He’s my best friend. He went back to America when the war ended, to Nebraska.”

“Is he the person who sends you all those letters?” I ask, trying not to sound jealous. He nods.

“When he came to get me, we both got shot. Me in the chest, Shep in the shoulder and right hand. We ended up in hospital and then were dismissed. Unfit for fighting.”

“What did you do after the war?”

He shrugs and starts walking again, my fingers still laced with his.

“I went back to Watford, but they had replaced me and Ebb was dead. I travelled here and there, did the odd job, then I went to visit Gareth’s mother and she told me about this job.”

“Did you know Gareth from before the war?”

“No, I met him at Passchendaele,” he pauses and then adds, “he died in my arms.”

My hand squeezes his, because I can’t find the words to make him feel better, but my body somehow seems to find a way.

We walk in silence for a while, our hands still locked, because neither of us seems to want to let go.

Then, all of a sudden, he stops and points in front of him.

“Hare,” he whispers.

I leave his hand and get my rifle ready. I aim and shoot, but I miss it and the animal disappears behind a tree.

“Bad luck,” I mutter and he chuckles, “what’s so funny?”

“Well, actually,” he says, rubbing his nose, “your aim is shit and your posture’s all wrong.”

I raise my eyebrow and try to look affronted, but he gets closer and his hands are suddenly on me, so my mouth opens and my lips turn into an involuntary smile.

“Here,” he says, his fingers pressing against the small of my back, as his other hand slides up my chest, making me shudder, “your back needs to be straight. Now hold your rifle.”

I do as he says and he corrects my posture, his warm skin against mine.

“You will need to remind me when we see another hare,” I say, because I have no shame and he’s moved away from me too soon. He blushes and chuckles again.

We continue walking and I miss holding his hand, his calloused fingers rubbing against my knuckles. When he stops, I nearly walk into him. He points at a rabbit, not far from us, hiding in the grass. I grab the rifle and he moves behind me, his chest pressing against my back. His right hand slides along my belly, holding me closer, while the other covers my own hand, over the trigger.

“Wait until you have a clear shot,” he whispers in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I close my eyes and suppress a whimper, and he moves even closer, until I feel the bulge of his cock, half-hard, against my thigh. My own member stirs in my trousers, and I can barely breathe with his body wrapped around mine, so solid and warm.

“Now,” he murmurs and then steps back. I open my eyes and fire, staring at the animal as it lies inert on the ground.

“Good job,” he says, his voice low, his hand resting on my back for a few seconds longer.

I can’t turn, otherwise he will notice that I’m hard, so I step away and walk towards the rabbit, squatting down to collect it and trying to regain some composure.

I take a deep breath and head back. He’s leaning on a tree, staring at me. And somehow his expression looks different.

**Simon**

I could have showed him using my own rifle.

I could have told him how to change his posture.

But I just felt the need to put my hands on him, to touch him and have him close.

And then _that_ happened.

I haven’t been able to get it up properly since before the war. It has all been too much and my cock was another thing that stopped working, broken like the rest of me. But it was suddenly alive with his body pressed against mine. God, his smell alone would have made me hard, but the way he trembled under my touch and the way his breath got caught in his throat just set my blood on fire.

I want him. I want all of him. I want him so badly that it hurts.

**Baz**

We walk around the woods and talk some more, about the war and my family, about Ebb and my mother. The hours go by and I manage to catch one more rabbit.

Snow keeps on looking at me in an unusual way, his eyes darker than usual and his body closer to mine than necessary.

When we get back to his cottage, I don’t want to part ways. I want to spend more time with him, ask him more questions, touch him some more.

I always want more than I can have.

“Well, thanks for dinner,” he says, raising the bag containing the rabbits and winking at me.

“Wait,” I say, an idea making me bold, “that’s not fair. I caught those.”

His face falls and his cheekiness is gone in an instant. He hands them to me.

“You take them, then.”

“I can’t cook,” I say, raising an eyebrow and crossing my arms.

“Don’t you have servants to cook for you?” he asks, an annoyed look on his face. I shrug (and that seems to irritate him even more).

“We could share them,” I suggest, licking my lips, “since you helped me catch them. You could cook them and we could eat them. Together.”

His eyes open wide and a smile lights up his face.

“Are you inviting yourself to dinner?” he asks in disbelief.

“Only if you want me there. You can have the rabbits, if you want.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I’ll have you.”

We stare at each other and I wonder if he means what he’s saying. If he really does.

“I’ll bring dessert,” I manage to mumble and then leave, before I make a fool of myself, “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

**Simon**

I watch him go, hypnotised by his snug trousers and long legs and I’m suddenly filled with want again. How am I going to survive a whole evening with him without making a fool of myself?

I go inside and lock the door behind my back, then I notice his scarf on the table in a fluffy pile, like a stranded cloud. I look at it for a few minutes, before finding the courage to take it into my rough hands. I’ve never touched anything so soft before and I close my eyes as I bring it to my face, inhaling his scent and letting out a little whimper.

I wonder if that’s what hugging him would feel like, with my nose in the crook of his neck, surrounded by the smell of him. I feel my cock twitching in my pants, painfully hard, and before I can process what I’m doing, I sit on my bed and open my trousers, my fingers trembling on the buttons. I haven’t done this in so long.

I keep his scarf over my face, sinking into his intoxicating scent, and I think of what he felt like under my fingers, as I start pulling at my cock, like I haven’t been able to do in ages. I shudder at the feeling, with my eyes shut, imagining his long fingers on me, so graceful and delicate. I think about what it would feel like to undress him and then run my hands over his lean body, to touch him and kiss him and lick him. To mark him as mine, sucking on his skin until he’s showing the signs of my desire on him.

I feel the orgasm building up, so soon that I can’t even believe it. I gasp and move my hand faster, imagining that it’s him touching me and then I see white sparks of light under my closed eyelids as I come hard with a muffled moan.

“Baz…” I whisper and shudder, and I feel my toes curling, then open my eyes and try to catch my breath.

I want him so badly.

This is so wrong.

He’s a man and he’s my employer. He may be reading books about governesses getting married with rich and posh men, but this is different. We’re both men and I could lose my job if word got out that I want him in _that way_. Bloody hell, that wouldn’t even be the worst of it. I could be beaten up, end up in prison, or be killed just for touching him.

This is the real world.

But as much as I try to tell myself that I need to stop thinking about him, I simply can’t. He’s in my mind all the time, I spend my days waiting for him to turn up. I wake up earlier than necessary and go to bed late, trying to be fast and efficient at my job, so that when he comes to see me, I can look at him and speak to him instead.

I also can’t shake off the feeling that he looks at me like he wants me. That he’s constantly trying to find out more about me. That he’s always trying to find ways to touch me. And I can't shake off the feeling that it could mean more than I initially thought. As if he might want me too. Or am I just an utter fool to believe it?

He held my hand earlier; no one had ever done that before.

He makes me feel fully alive again.

He makes me feel safe.

**Baz**

I wash and change and then I head to the kitchens to tell Vera that I won’t be there for dinner.

Her surprised look makes me falter, but she regains her composure immediately and just nods.

“What’s for dessert?” I ask, looking at the kitchen table.

“Cook Pritchard is making trifle,” she answers, pointing at the jelly and custard and I grimace. It’s still not ready and it would be a mess to carry.

“Do you have anything else for pudding?” I ask and Vera tilts her head, so I finally admit the truth, “I’m having dinner with Snow and I’m in charge of dessert. Not a word to anyone.”

She smiles, disappears for a minute and then comes back with a basket full of scones and some French butter.

“Simon is going to enjoy those,” she says with a smile.

**Simon**

When he arrives, wearing blue trousers that make his legs look even longer and a purple shirt with a leaf pattern, I feel my mouth getting dry. He’s so stunning and I look like a wreck. My hair’s still wet, because I didn’t have time to dry it properly and I know my curls are going to be a wild mess later, sticking out in all directions.

I’m all flustered, trying to cook dinner and tidying up the cottage, and he just smiles at me, a genuine happy smile that lights up his face and makes him look younger and even more gorgeous. I feel my cheeks catching fire, thinking about what I did earlier whilst thinking about him. I should feel guilty, but I’m still filled with want.

“Good evening, Snow. Thank you for having me.”

“M-my pleasure,” I stutter, wiping my hands on a towel.

He puts a basket on the table and I peek inside, my mouth watering when I lift the delicate tea towel that Vera has probably put at the top to reveal a dozen perfect scones. I’ve only ever had some old ones, dry and a bit stale, but these look freshly baked and smell absolutely fantastic.

“Vera gave me some scones,” he explains and he pronounces the word ‘scone’ in a posh way, different from the way I say it, “some are plain, others have raisins and there are a few sour cherry ones.”

“I’ve never had sour cherry scones before,” I admit, tempted to try one now, but not daring to. There’s some butter and my hand reaches for it.

“I love the way you say _scone_ ,” he says and I freeze, feeling my blush reaching a new level of embarrassment, watching his delighted expression when he notices the effect his words had on me.

“I love your accent,” he continues teasing me. He’s relentless.

I’m left speechless, so I return to my pot on the fire, stirring the meat and adding a few sage leaves.

“It smells lovely,” he says, getting closer and leaning over me, his hand suddenly touching my elbow.

“It’s not going to be as good as your usual meals,” I mutter, tugging at my curls, but he shakes his head and gently lets his hand slide down my arm, brushing against my open hand and then moving it away. It only lasts for a few seconds, but I feel my skin tingling with his touch.

“Thank you for cooking for me.”

**Baz**

I notice my scarf, lying nicely folded on the table (not the way I left it, so I wonder if he held it in his hands while I was gone).

Snow’s cheeks are all flushed and he looks positively edible. I keep on reminding myself that I shouldn’t touch him, because this is inappropriate and I could get in trouble for it. Yet, somehow, I can’t keep my hands off him and the closer I get to him, the more flustered he gets, making me wonder what has cracked his usual composure. I allow myself to imagine that it’s me, that I could have this effect on him, even though it’s most likely just my imagination.

I sit on a stool in front of the fire, moving it so that our knees are touching and he lets me do it, leaning slightly into me.

Buckle is snoring softly between us; a small whine makes him shudder. Snow reaches for his head, gently stroking his brown fur.

“It was just a bad dream,” he whispers and the dog huffs in his sleep.

“I remember when Gareth first got him,” I tell him and his eyes leave the dog to find mine, “he was a tiny ball of fur, but you could already see that he was a lively little thing.”

“Can you tell me more about Gareth?” he whispers, as if being the one asking me questions was not allowed.

I start telling him about when he first arrived, about his odd laughter, always so loud and sudden that it would catch you off guard. I tell him about all his supposed girlfriends and their loud spats, about Gareth’s family and that time he brought Vera a bouquet of wild flowers to thank her for a cake she had baked for his birthday and Vera was so happy that she had started crying.

Dinner’s ready and we eat it in front of the fire, sitting on our stools, on chipped and mismatched plates, while I tell him all that I can remember. Then he starts asking me more questions, about my mother, about what I normally do to keep my days busy, about my family and my ill health.

“My whole childhood was a continuous worry for my parents,” I say, “I was constantly told _you can’t do that_ and _be careful_. They were also trying to keep it hidden. I always felt like they were treating me like I was going to shatter any second. Like I was never allowed to live a full life. Only half of one.”

He sits in silence and then takes my empty plate and puts it on the table.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m living half a life too,” he confesses, “I got broken during the war and it’s like a part of me didn’t come back. It’s still out there, stuck in the mud somewhere.”

He sits back down, next to me and I want to touch him, take his hand, let my foot rest against his, nudge his knee. But I’m afraid of wanting him too much, of scaring him off.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, while the scones warm up (he’s put them on the closed lid of the pot he used to cook the rabbit).

“What do you normally do in the evening?” he asks.

“I read books, play the violin,” I answer, “or I talk to Miss Penelope. If I’m unlucky, I have to listen to Mordelia’s poor attempts at playing the piano. What do you do?”

He shrugs.

“Sometimes I lie down outside and look at the stars,” he says and he turns his head towards the window.

“Shall we do that?” I ask and he waits a few seconds before nodding.

**Simon**

I put an old blanket on the grass, a few feet away from the cottage, then I take another thicker blanket and lay it on top of it. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable. He puts the scones on a plate and gets some butter and a knife and we sit down in the darkness, the fire from the inside casting a faint light that allows us to barely see what we’re doing.

“Maybe I should have prepared the scones inside,” I say, trying not to cut my finger as I divide one in half and then spread some butter on it, handing it to him.

“No, this is more fun,” he says, sounding excited, “it’s like a picnic in the dark.” 

“Fun?” I ask, tilting my head, as I prepare another scone for me and add way more butter than necessary.

“Hm,” he mumbles, his mouth full, “I like spending time outside. Father was always against it, in case I got sick.”

I open my mouth and moan out loud when the sweet buttery taste hits my tongue. I hear him gasp next to me and I see his eyes opening wide, as I’m getting used to the darkness around us.

“This is so good,” I tell him, “oh my god!”

He chuckles and prepares one for me. I feel tempted to tell him to be careful with the knife or to let me do it, but I decide against it.

**Baz**

He made such an indecent sound earlier (it went straight to my groin) and I want him to make it again, so I keep on offering him scones.

“Hmmm,” he mumbles and my trousers suddenly feel really tight.

**Simon**

We lie on the blankets, our shoulders touching. There’s a soft breeze and he moves closer to me, seeking warmth.

“Do you know the constellations?” he asks.

“Just a few,” I answer, then point at a cluster of stars and say, “that’s Ursa Minor.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, his voice warm and with the hint of a smile, “the one you’re pointing at is Leo.”

He takes my hand in his, then moves it and stops.

“That’s Ursa Minor and just below you can see Draco,” he traces it with my finger and I want to ask him to show me more, but I’m suddenly struggling to get the words out.

“Shall I show you more?” he asks, his head turning on the blanket to face me, his hand not leaving mine. I nod and he shows me Cygnus, Libra, then Pegasus and Hercules, Ursa Major and Virgo.

“How do you know so many?” I ask, when he finally lowers my hand, but keeps his fingers around it, in between us.

“My mother taught me a few. I learnt the rest myself.”

We lie there in silence and time stretches. It must be late and I’m sure he needs to get back, but it’s so nice to just look at the night sky with him.

The wind suddenly picks up and he shivers, so I get up and pull his hand, dragging him up with me.

“It’s getting colder,” I say reluctantly, “maybe you should head back.”

He nods and I go inside to grab my lantern. When I get back, his fingers find mine again and I start walking beside him, slowly, to make this last a little longer.

“Thank you for tonight,” he whispers, “it was lovely.”

“Yes…”

We get to the point where the path clears and the woods end, turning into his gardens and well mowed grass. He keeps on walking, but I stop, his hand still locked with mine.

“I won’t go any further,” I explain.

“Why?”

“I don’t belong there,” I say, pointing at the imposing building.

“My home is always open for you,” he says and I don’t think he gets what I mean. That we belong to different worlds and this game he’s playing with me is just an illusion and it would burst like a bubble out there in the open. I want to keep it hidden in the safety of the woods, for as long as it lasts.

His thumb swipes along the centre of my palm and he moves closer, his forehead nearly resting against mine.

“May I come again tomorrow?” he asks, his voice low.

“It’s your wood. You can come and go as you please.”

“That’s not why I asked,” he says, his fingers squeezing mine, “I want to spend time with you. Have dinner with you again. May I come again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I answer and his body suddenly presses against mine, for the briefest moment, in a warm and unexpected hug. And before I know it, he’s gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all the people who have left comments and kudos. Every single one of them made me happy.  
> A shiny thank you to my amazing betas [ Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis).  
> This is my favourite chapter; I hope you all enjoy it!  
> Trigger warning for mention of suicide (minor character death).

_“And every scar is God’s autograph.”_

_Jovanotti, “Mezzogiorno”_

**Simon**

The knock on the door startles me (Buckle is the worst guard dog ever; he is still sleeping soundly).

“Come on in!” I shout, hoping that it’s him, even though he has left not even an hour ago. It’s Miss Penelope instead, her round face peeking in with a smile.

“Simon, I have a letter for you,” she says, handing me the white envelope with red and blue borders.

“Thank you,” I say, standing up.

“What were you doing?” she asks and I gesture for her to come in.

“Mending clothes, I’ve managed to rip two pairs of trousers and most of my shirts are missing buttons. Please, take a seat.”

She moves the chair and then freezes, looking down.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, grabbing a needle and thread as I sit down.

She lifts a book from the chair and holds it up in her hand, then opens the front cover and frowns. It’s Sir Basilton’s book, the one about the governess falling in love with the posh man.

“This book,” she starts, then looks at me with a confused expression, “it’s Sir Basilton’s.”

“Yes,” I answer, “he was reading it a couple of weeks ago. He must have left it here.”

“Here?” she asks and I nod, feeling anxious.

Was I supposed to lie? Is it that weird that he left a book in my cottage? He keeps on leaving his stuff behind (a book, two scarves, a jacket, a pair of gloves) and then he forgets to pick it up when he comes to visit. I’ve cleared a drawer to put it all in, because I don’t want his posh clothes to get dirty, but I must have missed the book, since I never use that chair.

Keeping his things makes me feel guilty, because I’ve taken the terrible habit of smelling his clothes and then getting off. I feel like a deviant. I know it’s not normal, but I can’t stop doing it, after all this time feeling like half a man because I couldn’t even get it up or feel some kind of pleasure. I try not to think about it too much, because it feels nice and I’m not hurting anyone. Well, maybe just me.

I know I’m getting too attached to him, that I shouldn’t be spending all this time in his company. Rich lords normally don’t spend their afternoons and evenings with their gamekeepers. Sometimes I wonder what the rest of his servants think about it. They must be talking behind our backs and I’m terrified of the rumours spreading. What if someone calls the police? What if I get dismissed and end up in the middle of the street?

“He told me he had left it in his room,” she says, looking at me like I’m a secret that needs cracking. I try to smile and look relaxed.

“He probably got confused,” I shrug and then go back to my needle work, “he’s always reading so many books.”

“You’re doing a terrible job at that,” Miss Penelope says, leaning over the table and pointing at my mended trousers, “give it here.”

I feel embarrassed, but she is quite bossy, so I don’t dare to say no to her.

“You don’t have to help,” I say, “it’s just my clothes. It’s not like I need them to be fancy.”

She shakes her head and gets the scissors to undo my mess and start again.

“No worries, I always end up doing silly needle work with Mordelia. Flowers and birds, so boring. At least this is useful.”

I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I grab Shepard’s letter and open it.

“Is that from your American friend?” she asks and I nod.

“He has found his mother,” I say out loud, whilst reading, “oh no…”

“What happened?”

I lower the letter and look outside, my fingers tapping against my thumb, my breathing irregular. I try to take a deep breath, then another, but it doesn’t work and I feel like I’m drowning.

“His brother has shot himself,” I murmur, “he lost…”

Miss Penelope waits for me to continue, her hand finding mine and squeezing it.

“He got badly injured in the war. His face was…he couldn’t handle it anymore…”

I have thought about it, about ending things. But I came back, more or less in one piece, and so many people didn’t. Ebb always told me that life is a gift, no matter how hard it is, and that it shouldn’t go to waste.

So I carry on, because she would never forgive me if I didn’t.

And because I’ve found a new reason to live, even though I’m keeping it secretly tucked in a dark corner of my heart.

**Baz**

Snow is not chopping wood, nor repairing the gates. I let my telescope roam around the wood and I can’t see him anywhere. Did he go hunting and is he now hiding in the thicker part of the woods?

I still decide to go and look for him, but when I get to his cottage I am greeted by a frantic Buckle, who keeps on barking and jumping on me.

“Snow?” I ask and there’s a feeble answer coming from the cottage. I walk in and find him on the bed, a thick blanket covering him. I rush to his side and kneel down next to him.

“What happened?” I ask, my fingers dying to touch him, to check that he’s fine.

“Just a bad cold,” he says, his cheeks flushed and eyes half-open, watery and almost grey, “Got caught in the storm the other day and I got drenched. I will go back to work. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be daft,” I say, pushing him down when he tries to get up, “I forbid you to work if you are feeling unwell.”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, “I have work to do.”

“Nonsense,” I say, finally allowing my hand to brush against his forehead. His skin is so hot that I falter, “Snow, you must have a high temperature, you’re boiling!”

“I’m feeling really cold,” he says, shivering in spite of the warm weather.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” I say standing up, but he grabs my hand and stops me.

“No doctor. I’ve had enough of doctors and hospitals. I just need some rest and I’ll be as good as new.”

“I will ask Vera to come, then,” I say, panicking, and he shakes his head. Stubborn man. “I’ll get some fresh water then; we need to cool you down. Let’s get rid of this thick blanket.”

He protests feebly as he lies there in his undergarments and I feel so bad, making him shiver and curl up on himself, looking for some warmth. I go out and get some water from the well, then wet my handkerchief and put it on his forehead. He hisses at the contact, but he doesn’t stop me.

I fill a glass with cool water and make him drink some, then I sit on the edge of the bed; he closes his eyes and my fingers go for his curls. I slide my hand through them and he makes a contented noise at the back of his throat, purring like a cat.

“Feels good,” he murmurs, moving towards me. I want to touch him more, but I don’t want to take advantage of him.

“You need to go,” he whispers, “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” I tell him and he hums and snuggles closer, looking for warmth, and I automatically move towards him, like a magnet. I keep on stroking his hair, until his breathing becomes more even.

**Simon**

I wake up with a start, screaming and getting up, looking for my rifle, for my helmet, trying to locate the enemy and instead I find _him_ sitting on a chair next to my bed. He stares at me with wide grey eyes and open lips.

“Calm down, Simon,” he says, getting closer, his hand on my arms, then on my face, “it was just a nightmare.”

I sit there panting, shivering and I try to remember what happened, why my head feels like it’s about to burst and it’s throbbing so hard that I can hear my own heartbeat, like a drum in my ears.

“I…” my voice sounds raw, like glass paper, “what are you doing here?”

He pours some water in a glass and hands it to me. His fingers are so cold against mine.

“You have a fever,” he explains, sitting next to me on the bed, “you didn’t want me to get the doctor.”

“No doctor,” I repeat.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, trying to get your temperature to go down.”

“Why?” I ask, confused.

“What do you mean, why? Because you’re unwell and I wanted to look after you!”

He looks affronted and I feel like my head may explode. I groan and cover my face with my hand, then sink down onto the bed again.

“You need to rest,” he says and then he places a cold compress on my forehead, “close your eyes and sleep.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I mutter, “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Shhh.”

His fingers feel pleasantly cool on my burning skin, so I let him touch me as I drift back to sleep, lulled by the sound of his voice telling me over and over that everything will be alright, that he’s here with me. That I’m not alone.

**Baz**

What if something happens to him?

What if I lose him, like I lost my mother?

I can’t stand the thought. I can’t leave his side, knowing that he could get worse. That he would be here on his own. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make him feel better.

I don’t know what to do and I’m terrified.

**Simon**

When I wake up again, I don’t feel so shivery. My head is heavy and it’s still pounding, my throat dry. I turn, looking for him and I find Vera instead, sitting by my bed with a soft smile on her face.

“How are you feeling, love?” she asks, gently touching my forehead, “your temperature has finally gone now.”

I sit up and look around the room. He’s gone.

“Sir Basilton has gone back to the Manor,” she explains, reading the confusion on my face, “I’ve brought you some dinner. Here, have some chicken soup while it’s still warm.”

She hands me a bowl full of steaming soup and I realise that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I wolf it all down with some bread and can’t stop thanking Vera. I feel overwhelmed by all this kindness.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, waving her hand, “you’re part of the family now. Why would I not look after you?”

I feel my eyes watering and look down, hoping that the steam coming from the bowl will disguise my tears.

“Sir Basilton was worried sick,” she says, gently patting my leg, “he came to find me and he didn’t know what to do. I came straight away and told him to eat some dinner, because he had skipped lunch.”

I open my mouth and stare at her, in disbelief.

“I’m so sorry,” I say and she starts laughing.

“What are you sorry for, silly boy?”

“He skipped lunch, because he was here with me.”

“It was his choice,” she says with warmth, “I bet you told him to go and he refused to. You’re both stubborn, like a pair of mules.”

I finish my soup, mulling things over, an odd feeling in my chest.

“He has been much happier lately,” Vera says, taking the bowl from me when I’m done, “it’s all thanks to you.”

“What?” I ask.

“He has always been a miserable boy,” she explains, “after his mother passed away, he closed up, like a little clam. He hardly ever smiled, just spent his days indoors reading and playing sad songs with his violin. But he has changed so much since your arrival.”

“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” I reply.

“Don’t be daft,” she replies, “you’ve been spending a lot of time together and it has made him happy like he’s never been before. It’s all thanks to your friendship.”

“Friendship?”

“You’re friends, aren’t you?” she asks with a smile.

And I don’t know what to answer.

Friends?

He can’t be my friend; he’s my employer and I’m just a servant. Besides, this is nothing like the friendship I have with Shep. It’s completely different.

My feelings for sir Basilton are all muddled up, like a ball of yarn wrapped up in the wrong way, full of knots. I want him. I touch myself thinking about him, smelling his clothes. I long for his hands on me, for his never-ending questions and for his company.

But maybe he just wants to be my friend.

And how can I deny him anything?

**Baz**

It’s dark when I finally manage to get back to him. I open the door as quietly as I can and find him asleep, a light blanket covering him. Buckle is sleeping at the foot of the bed; he lifts his head when he sees me, but he remains quiet.

I lock the door, close the curtains and then I take a chair to sit next to the bed, watching him sleep.

**Simon**

I wake up with a start, jumping up and trying to catch my breath. I can still hear the metallic _tap tap tap_ of the rain on all the helmets, the sinking feeling of the mud under my feet.

“Simon,” a whisper in the dark. I turn and he’s there, sitting on a chair, his hand stretched out. I grab it and it feels cool.

“What time is it?” I ask and he checks his pocket watch, moving it so that the light of the dying fire can illuminate it. The room feels warm, but I shiver; my shirt is sticking to my chest and I feel all clammy.

“It’s past ten o’clock,” he replies, putting the clock away. His fingers hesitantly find my forehead, brush away a few curls and he sighs.

“Your fever is gone, finally.”

“I’m all sweaty and disgusting,” I grimace, taking my shirt off, without thinking. He stands up and pours some water into a pan and then puts it on the fire.

“I’ll warm up some water, so that you can wash,” he says, avoiding my eyes.

“Don’t you need to go back?” I ask, “what is everyone going to think? It’s late.”

He smiles in a cheeky way and puts the warm pan on the table.

“I sneaked out. No one saw me.”

He turns and faces the wall as I wash myself with a soft cloth and warm water. I get up to grab some clean clothes from the wardrobe and feel his eyes following me. I pull my trousers down, in a bold move, hearing a soft gasp when they hit the floor and my buttocks are at his mercy. I want to see his face. I want to know if he’s looking, if he’s blushing, if he wants me even an ounce of how I want him.

I get dressed slowly, then I turn and find him staring at me, an embarrassed look in his eyes that makes my heart beat faster.

I go back to bed and after a few seconds he sits on his chair.

“You can go home; it’s late.”

He shakes his head.

“I want to keep an eye on you. Your temperature could go up again,” he replies.

“You’re the lord of the Manor. You can’t spend the night sitting on a wooden chair.”

“Is that what you think of me?” he asks, tilting his head, “the lord of the Manor?”

I rub my eyes and yawn.

“Well, that’s what you are.”

“Is that all I am to you?” he whispers it so softly, that I start wondering if I heard him or just imagined it.

**Baz**

His gaze is fixed on me, studying me and I’m glad for the dim light, hiding my blushing cheeks.

“You can’t sleep on a chair,” he repeats.

“Well, there’s only one bed,” I reply and he suddenly moves, clearing some space and curling up, his back against the wall.

“There’s enough space for both of us on it, if you want,” he says.

I feel like I’m dreaming, as I take my shoes, my jacket and waistcoat off, putting them on the chair and then I climb into bed with him. He pulls the blanket over both of us and we just lie there in the dark, my heart pounding in my chest like a mad tambourine.

Am I dreaming? Is this some kind of strange product of my sick mind?

“More…” he whispers, “you’re more than that. So much more.”

I turn to look at him, but his eyes are closed.

His breathing eventually becomes irregular and soft and I realise that he’s asleep, his beautiful face peaceful in the moonlight. I brush one of his curls behind his ear and let my hand rest on his cheek for a minute. But then he moves, his arm circling my waist under the covers and his face hiding in the crook of my neck, nuzzling with a sigh.

“Baz…” he whispers in his sleep and I let my hands wrap around his back, keeping him close. Keeping him warm and safe.

God, I love him so much.

**Simon**

I wake up in the middle of the night, from an odd dream that I can’t recall, but that has left me confused. I feel warm skin against mine, a soft breath on my forehead, strong arms around me. And then I remember that he stayed, that he’s sleeping next to me, that I’m in his arms.

I place a small kiss on his neck and he murmurs in his sleep. I close my eyes and feel sleep washing over me, like a gentle wave.

I think I’m in love with him.

**Baz**

I wake up at the break of dawn, not used to so much light (I sleep with very thick curtains and the cottage is surprisingly bright in the early morning).

He’s still wrapped around me, but we must have changed position during the night, because I’m lying on my side and his chest is pressed against my back. I think about drifting back to sleep, for a little longer, but then he shifts and mumbles in his sleep and I suddenly feel his hard member pressed against my back.

“Baz…” he says in a whisper, followed by a soft moan and I feel all the blood rush to my nether regions. He gently rocks against me, his length sliding against my buttocks, through the thin fabric of his undergarments. I swallow loudly and try to think.

He’s probably just having a dream.

“Mhhh…” his lips press against my neck and I know that I need to leave, because otherwise I will do something unforgivable to him.

I unwillingly disentangle myself from his embrace, lifting his arms slowly and then I put my shoes on and I unlock the door, trying not to make any sound. I turn for a second and I feel a pang in my heart, looking at his beautiful sleeping face, his eyebrows creasing while he’s dreaming about god knows what.

“Baz...” he whispers again and I leave.

I walk fast, but I have to stop soon, because I’m still so ridiculously hard and I have to do something about it. I hide behind a tree, sink down on my bottom and then unfasten my trousers, panting as I take my hard cock into my hand and start stroking at a maddening pace. I close my eyes and think about him, about his smell, so strong in the bed, about his arms wrapped around me and his length, sliding between my cheeks. I imagine him taking my trousers off with his strong hands and whispering my name in my ear as he pushes inside me, grunting and moaning, making me come undone.

I come with a soft whimper, feeling ashamed and guilty.

I feel like crying, because all these feelings that I have for him are going to go to waste. Because I love him so much and there is no way he feels the same way about me. Because we’re both men and nothing is ever going to happen.

I will just suffer in silence, until my heart breaks into a million pieces.

**Simon**

He’s not there, when I wake up. His side of the bed is cold, but my pillow smells like him. I sink my face in it and let my nostrils fill with his scent. I’m hard and confused, and I want to touch myself.

I turn and notice his jacket and waistcoat, still on my chair.

He has left his clothes behind again.

He called me Simon last night, he held me close to him and I felt like I was melting in his arms. I felt safe.

**Baz**

A few days go by. Dev and Niall arrive at the beginning of the third week of July in a brand-new flashy car. My cousin’s short dark hair emerges from the window, a toothy grin on his face.

“Baz! Took you long enough to invite us here!”

Niall gets out of the car and gives me a hug, studying my face and then smiling.

“You look well,” he says, his skin still nicely tanned from their trip to southern Europe, “thanks for having us. Dev has been nagging me to come and see you since we came back from Italy.”

My cousin stumbles out of the car, limping towards me. He lost a few toes to the frost on the Alps. He nearly died of hypothermia during the war.

“Thank you for coming all the way to Hampshire,” I say, as the servants arrive and take their luggage.

“You live in the middle of nowhere,” Dev complains, “how do you even survive the absolute boredom?”

“I live in the middle of the New Forest,” I correct him, “the nearest village is just ten miles away.”

“Ten miles!” Dev says, outraged. He’s used to busy London streets, to the chaos and noise that I despise.

“We’ve been driving through the countryside for what felt like hours,” Niall says, “we saw plenty of cows and sheep.”

I take them in and show them to their rooms, which are just above mine, on the upper floor. It’s nearly lunchtime, so I give them some time to settle down and wait for them in the parlour.

I went to visit Snow this morning, but I already miss him and I wonder when I will be able to go see him again.

**Simon**

I’m chopping some wood, the sleeves of my shirt rolled up and top buttons undone. It’s a warm day, but my scars hurt. It’s going to rain soon.

Buckle starts barking loudly; I lift my head and see a group of people coming towards me. Sir Basilton leads the way, his guests behind him, arguing loudly about something. He told me they were going to arrive today. His eyes search for mine as soon as he’s close enough and a small smile flickers on his lips.

“This is Simon Snow, my gamekeeper,” he introduces me to his friends and I can’t help but feel butterflies flying madly in my stomach at the way he said ‘ _my_ gamekeeper’. Like I belong to him and he’s keeping me for some kind of game that I still haven’t figured out.

I lift my hat and the two young men look curiously around my cottage. The one that looks a bit like Sir Basilton (he must be his cousin) nearly falls over when Buckle tries to jump on him to get a cuddle.

“Buckle, down!” I shout and he comes towards me, “good boy.”

“You’d better keep that wild beast of yours chained up,” the cousin says, cleaning his trousers and I instantly feel anger bubbling up inside me.

“Buckle’s lovely,” Sir Basilton says, before I can come up with a retort, “maybe we should chain you up, Dev.”

The other gentleman chuckles and pats the offended cousin on the back.

“My friends would like to go hunting tomorrow morning,” Sir Basilton says, looking at me with his soft grey eyes.

“It’s going to rain,” I reply, going back to chopping wood, to keep my hands busy.

“Nonsense,” one of his friends says, “it’s going to be sunny like today.”

I lift the hatchet and bring it down with unnecessary force, taking pleasure in the way the log breaks perfectly in half. My chest hurts, my leg feels like it’s about to shatter again.

“It’s going to rain,” I repeat and one of them scoffs, muttering something like ‘you should cane him’ under his breath.

“Would you like to join us tomorrow morning?” Sir Basilton asks gently (way too gently) and I shake my head.

“I have work to do, Sir Basilton. The eastern gate needs urgent repairs.”

It’s a lie and we both know it. I fixed it last week and he was there with me while I did it. But I can’t face spending a morning with them, feeling out of place and exchanging guilty glances with him.

“We will leave you to your work then,” he says, sounding disappointed, casting another glance in my direction. I might be dreaming, but I see longing in his eyes, a veil of sadness.

“Honestly, that gamekeeper of yours is so rude,” I hear his cousin say as they leave, “you should dismiss him and find a new one.”

“Shut up, Dev.”

**Baz**

Snow was right. I wake up in the morning and it’s pouring down, the sky an angry dark grey colour, making me feel gloomy and miserable. I want to see him, but I can’t.

I need to entertain my guests and they are only going to be here for a week, but all I can think about is Snow. His freckled skin and his bronze curls, the lovely shape of his neck, his smell (cheap soap and something comforting and arousing at the same time), the sound of his voice.

I spend the morning and the afternoon playing cards, discussing politics, listening to music and then pacing around the gardens with my friends and all the time it’s just him in my mind.

I think about sneaking out before dinner, but the weather takes a turn for the worst and it would be odd if I went out for a walk under this deluge.

I look outside and I worry.

What if he gets sick again?

Is he warm enough in the cottage? Will the roof leak?

I think about his scars and I wonder if they hurt, like he said they usually do when it rains and then I worry about him. Is he going to think about the trenches, about the war?

I just want to go to him.

**Simon**

I don’t see him for three days and it keeps on raining, day and night. My mood sours, as the days get wetter and the soil gets muddier.

I try to keep myself busy, but there isn’t much work that I actually need to do and my leg is so painful that I struggle to move. I write to Shep, mend more clothes, cook time-consuming dinners, snuggle up with Buckle in front of the fire. But nothing works and I either end up thinking about him or about the war and I feel myself slipping down, feeling more and more desperate as the days go by, my positive thoughts drowned by the incessant rain.

When is it going to end?

**Baz**

It’s late and I can’t sleep.

Dev and Niall are going to stay for two more days and I can’t wait for them to leave. The way they interact with each other has changed. I can’t put my hand on what has happened, but they keep on touching each other or they exchange weird glances, Niall’s eyes soft and affectionate, Dev’s expression unreadable.

I fall into a dreamless sleep and I wake up to a thumping sound coming from upstairs. That’s Niall’s room and I get up, confused in the dark, wondering what is going on. It must be very early morning, since the light has just started filtering through the curtains. I take a lantern and make my way upstairs, trying not to make any sound.

When I finally step in front of Niall’s door, I hold my breath.

“Dev…please…” his tone sounds pleading.

Are they having a fight?

I move a bit closer, my ear nearly touching the door, then I hear a gasp and a low moan and my eyes open wide in the dark corridor.

“Stop sucking me and put it in, you big tease.”

I feel my cheeks on fire and I know I need to go right now, leave them to their intimacy, but I’m rooted to the spot. I can’t stop listening to the soft needy sounds Niall is making, the way he whimpers and swears under his breath when Dev does something (I can only imagine what) and then the wet slapping sound of skin against skin.

They are having sex in my house. I should probably feel outraged, but I am just curious and embarrassed, listening like a depraved voyeur.

How am I going to face them in the morning?

I’m about to leave, when I hear it.

“I love you,” Dev says it with such tenderness that I feel a lump in my throat, “I love you, Niall.”

I want what they have.

I want it with Snow.

I want it so desperately that I would give away everything for that connection with him, for a chance to hold him in my arms and to tell him that I love him. I love him so much. I love him more than anything else.

I tiptoe back to my room, change into my clothes and put a coat on, then I sneak out. The house is still asleep as I head for the woods, down the path that leads to his cottage. It’s still raining, there’s mud everywhere and I worry about him.

His curtains are open and I stare at him from behind a tree. He’s getting ready for the morning, having breakfast and then tidying up. He looks worn out, tired and stretched thin, with dark circles under his eyes.

I wish I could reach out and go in, be part of his life, hold him in my arms and tell him that he’s not alone, that everything will be fine. That I love him.

But we’re both men and he’s my gamekeeper. So I just look, until it’s time to go back to my useless life in my stupid manor.

I cast one last glance and I see him sitting at the table, staring at his arm, a frown on his beautiful face.

**Simon**

There’s a bruise on my left arm.

It’s just under my wrist, on the inside, just under the blue rivers of veins.

I don’t even know how I got it; it just sits there, looking angry and purple. I let my thumb skid over it gently and close my eyes, the feeling keeping me grounded.

It’s raining again today; it has been raining for the past five days and there’s mud everywhere. It’s a different kind of mud, but it still reminds me of the trenches, of the long endless days and nights spent waiting, of the cold seeping into your bones, thinking that you will never ever feel warmth again. Rats running round, the stink of piss and shit and rot, the noises above and around us, the artillery and the shouts, then silence. Sometimes we thought the silence was even worse, because it meant more waiting, more rotting, more freezing hands and chilly bones.

The dog starts barking and I snap out of it. I open the door to the cottage, wondering who the fuck is venturing out in this weather so early in the morning, but I can’t see anyone.

“Scared of your own shadow, Buckle?” I ask the dog and he comes to me, wagging his tail as he licks my hand.

When I am going to see him again?

**Baz**

I can’t face them at breakfast. I keep my eyes glued to the table, to my plate and my cup of tea, as they chat gleefully, unaware of the secret we now share.

“You’re in a funny mood,” Dev accuses me, “cat got your tongue, Baz?”

I shake my head and drink some tea.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I reply.

“We should do something fun today,” says Niall, “what about going to the Club?”

We end up driving all the way to Southampton to go to the Club and then we play tennis in the rain, have lunch with a bunch of boring aristocrats, talk to some ladies. I’m really confused by the way Dev is flirting with them. Is Niall not jealous?

“Baz, you look like you’re ready for a funeral!” my cousin says on the way back, his eyes sharp on me as Niall drives his car. “Would it have killed you to mingle a bit? You didn’t even exchange a word with those lovely ladies. You never know, you could meet your future wife at the Club. The mother of the new heir to the House of Pitch.”

I get irritated, because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about and I just want him to drop it.

I feel jealous of what they have, of their freedom, of the fact that they’ve found each other. I know I should be happy for them, but I can’t.

There’s a part of me that feels left out, because they didn’t even consider telling me about their relationship, but then I think that I would have done the same. I wouldn’t tell them that I’m in love with Snow. They don’t know that I like men. Only Fiona and Father know and he has been very clear about his expectations and what I am meant to do with my life (find a wife and produce a male heir or die trying).

“I am not planning on getting married,” I reply, hoping that he will drop it.

“Maybe not now, but you will eventually need to,” Dev replies.

“I can do what I want,” I say, my anger boiling to the surface.

“You could travel a bit,” Niall suggests, always trying to bring peace between us, “see the world before you settle down.”

“Hm” I reply, looking outside of the window, at the countryside swishing by.

I miss him.

As soon as we get back to Pitch Manor, I tell them that I need to take a walk and speak to my gamekeeper and I will be back in time for dinner. I don’t even give them a chance to reply, too scared that they might want to tag along.

I nearly run to his cottage, hoping to find him there. The curtains are open and he has lit a fire inside.

**Simon**

There’s a soft knock on the door and I raise my head from the letter I’m writing, hoping that it’s him.

I open the door and find him there, all drenched, a desperate smile on his face. How can he look both happy and about to fall apart at the same time?

“You’re going to catch your death,” I say, my hand reaching for his arm, grabbing him and dragging him in, “let’s get you warm and dry.”

We sit in front of the fire and he keeps on casting hopeful glances in my direction. I haven’t seen him since the beginning of the week and it feels like a lifetime. I want to reach out and touch him, bring him close, make him mine.

He shivers in his wet clothes and I suddenly feel the need to wrap my arms around him. It’s stupid, I know, he’s my employer. It would be completely inappropriate for me to touch him and I would definitely lose my job, but sometimes he just looks like he’s about to break into a million pieces. He looks cold and miserable and I can’t stand seeing him like that. So I just move closer, until our thighs and elbows are touching and he seems to lean into me, ever so slightly, his right foot nudging my left one. Perfectly polished shiny boots against scruffy dirty shoes.

“You have a bruise on your arm,” he says, pointing at it, “does it hurt?”

“Nah,” I shrug, “I’ve had much worse.”

“The fact that you’ve had worse doesn’t mean that it can’t hurt,” he says, his fingers trembling, hovering over my arm and then carefully sliding over my skin, his touch so light that I can barely feel it.

No one has ever been this delicate with me, treating me like I’m made of glass, like butterfly wings.

“It feels nice,” I say and then I whisper, “it feels nice when you touch me.”

Baz brushes his fingers across my skin, gently, making goosepimples appear.

“Tell me about your wounds,” he whispers, “about how you got them.”

With my left arm still trapped under his touch, I use my right hand to lift my trousers and show him my leg. The scar looks angry and white, the skin all bunched up where the bullet made its way inside, shattering the bone. He probably thinks I look disgusting.

“May I touch it?” he asks and I nod, confused and surprised.

His cool fingers leave my arm as he leans forward to gently dip them in the small crater left by the metal. I suddenly feel like crying, because no one has ever been so careful with my body and I don’t know what to do about the weight I feel on my chest. There’s a massive lump in my throat.

His fingers circle my leg, looking for the exit wound, but it’s not there.

“They had to get it out,” I explain.

“Do you have others?” he asks, coming back up, his grey eyes locked with mine and I nod. He tilts his head, his hand resting on my leg and I wonder what he wants from me.

“May I see them, Simon?” he asks. My name sounds so lovely in his mouth; I want him to use it all the time.

I unbutton my shirt and show him the devastation left on my chest by that shell that nearly took my life and his eyes open wide, but it’s not disgust I see in them. His hands carefully move the fabric of my shirt aside and then slowly trace my scars; his fingertips as soft as feathers. I close my eyes because I can’t sustain his gaze any longer.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers, and I want to shake my head, but I can’t.

How do I put this feeling into words? I don’t feel physical pain when he touches me, but my heart hurts. It feels like it’s breaking and I thought it couldn’t get more broken than it already was. And yet this is different. It’s a sort of pain I’ve never felt before. It’s a kind of longing for something I can’t put a name to. It’s an unnamed desire, the need to feel closer to him, to let his fingers destroy me, to let his words melt me like snow in the sun.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I tell him, opening my eyes, drowning in his, “but somehow, it still does.”

He nods and then his fingers slide down my chest, to the smaller scars, old wounds from the colliery or from the times I fell over or got myself in trouble when I was little.

“What about your back?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I take my shirt off and turn, letting him trace the lines on my skin, his fingertips light and cool.

“They look like wings,” he whispers, “how did you get them?”

“Lord Mage,” I swallow, closing my eyes, “he was easily displeased…and I was not good enough.”

I can feel him trembling against my skin, then his hair brushing on my shoulders as his forehead rests against the back of my neck, his hands hugging me from behind, circling my waist and then holding me impossibly close.

“I’m going to murder him,” he whispers and I feel the lump in my throat finally melt, his warm body so close to mine, his hands keeping me grounded. I reach back, cautiously, my own fingers trembling and insecure and he lets out a small sound as I finally make contact with his arm. His lips gently press against my skin, but they stay there, still, so it’s not really a kiss. Or is it?

I’m so confused. I wonder what he’s thinking.

**Baz**

I don’t know what I’m thinking.

I just want to kiss him.

**Simon**

The minutes go by and we just stay there, in that warm cocoon that he has created, while time stretches and the day grows dark.

I know he needs to go, but I don’t want to remind him.

His guests will be waiting. He has a dinner to go to and he needs to return to his life.

I know this is just a distorted reality, some kind of weird dream that we’ve created, but that won’t last long. Like a bubble of soap that floats and floats, but eventually has to burst.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers.

I want to tell him to stay, but I can’t.

We hear a faint noise from outside. It’s Vera calling his name from afar. I look outside and can see a small light in the distance. She’s probably coming to check that he’s fine.

“You need to go,” I say, gently untangling myself, putting my shirt back on, suddenly aware of how dangerous it would be if we were caught like this by someone. My hands are shaking and I struggle to get the buttons into their holes, so he brushes my fingers aside and he does it for me.

“There,” he murmurs tenderly. When his hands get to the collar, his fingers slide along my jaw and he cups my cheeks, his eyes locking with mine.

“I wish I could stay,” he says and I nod, because I can’t get my words out. Because he’s so close and he smells amazing. Because I suddenly realise that I’m dying to kiss him, to keep him here with me.

He lets go of me and I immediately miss his touch. He opens the door and steps outside.

“Vera, I’m coming!” he shouts, “you can start serving dinner.”

She replies something that I don’t catch and I see the light from her lantern moving away, towards the manor.

We stand there, on the doorway, staring at each other. He looks like he’s about to shatter, like he’s dying to say something that is stuck in his throat.

“Snow…” he murmurs.

“You called me Simon before,” I say, tugging on my curls, “I liked that.”

His hand reaches for me and I grab it.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, his feet still rooted to the spot.

I see the pain in his eyes and somehow, I find the courage to ask him a question that I know might change everything. A few simple words that take all the courage that I have in me to leave my mouth.

“What is it that you want?”

He stares at me, then he squeezes my fingers and I squeeze back.

“You,” he whispers, then a little louder, “you. It’s you that I want.”

**Baz**

I feel my heart in my throat, beating madly.

He stares at me, with his impossibly blue eyes, and I feel like running away and taking him in my arms at the same time.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but his hand goes for my shirt, grabbing it and bringing me closer. Then his lips are on mine and I close my eyes, feeling his mouth moving against mine, unexpectedly soft and so lovely. I let out a small whimper and then his mouth opens and I do the same, letting his tongue slide inside, tasting him and letting him taste me. And this must be a dream, because Simon Snow is kissing me and yet the world is not on fire.

He lets go of my hand and cups my cheek, humming into my mouth. He tilts his chin and I moan, because this feels so good and he’s so warm and solid and sweet. My arms wrap around his waist, bringing him closer, feeling almost delirious with happiness when I hear him letting out a little gasp as our chests press flush against each other.

We kiss and we kiss and we kiss until I feel giddy with it.

“You need to leave,” he says against my lips, “they’re waiting for you. They’ll come looking for you.”

And yet his fingers slide through my hair and his face moves up again, to reclaim my lips one more time and then he pulls away.

“I’ll be back,” I whisper, my forehead resting against his, “will you wait for me?”

He nods and I kiss him one more time, chastely, because I won’t be able to leave if I let him kiss me again like before. And then I leave.

**Simon**

I watch him go, wondering what on earth I have just done.

I kissed him.

He kissed me back.

He said that he wanted me.

I watch him disappear and I go back inside. I don’t shut the door; I can’t, because I know that I might not find the courage to open it again.

I pace around, mad with fear.

What if he realises this is a colossal mistake?

What if he changes his mind?

What if he calls the police?

Buckle follows me around, looking worried and I squat down on the floor. I hide my face in his fur, my fingers shaking.

“Buckle, what do I do?”

When is he coming back? After dinner? Tomorrow morning?

I start pacing again, my hands in my hair, grunting and then I hear a noise.

I turn and he’s standing there, impossibly beautiful, his eyes shining.

“I told them I was undisposed and I was going to bed early,” he says, then he walks in and closes the door behind his back.

“Lock the door,” I whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that the chapter ends with a terrible cliffie, so I am going to try to post chapter 5 on Sunday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They lock the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how amazing [ Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis) are? They are just brilliant. 💙  
> A big thank you to all the people who have left comments and kudos.  
> I hope you enjoy the super smutty chapter!

_“And I’ve always lived like this_

_Keeping a comfortable distance_

_And up until now_

_I had sworn to myself that I’m content_

_With loneliness_

_Because none of it was ever worth the risk_

_But you are the only exception._

_You are the only exception.”_

_Paramore, “The only exception”_

**Baz**

“Lock the door,” he whispers. I see his Adam’s apple moving up and down on his neck and I feel the sudden need to kiss him there, to bite him.

Without breaking eye contact, I reach for the key and turn it in the lock, then I move and I close the curtains and now it really feels like we’ve left the world outside, like it’s just the two of us here. Buckle’s asleep in front of the fire, breathing softly, and Snow is just standing there, looking at me.

Shall I move first?

I want to kiss him again.

“Sir Basilton…” he murmurs and I shake my head.

“Don’t call me that, please.” I’ve been thinking about it since I heard him whisper my name in his sleep, that night we spent together when he was sick. He’s been calling me by my first name in his dreams. I want to hear him say it whilst his eyes are locked with mine. “Call me Baz.”

He swallows again, his fingers moving nervously, playing with the thick fabric of his trousers.

“Baz…” he whispers and that seems to break the spell, because we’re both moving at the same time, my hands on his face, his arms around my waist, sliding up my back, grabbing my shirt, his lips finally on mine. I whimper as he kisses me like the world is about to end. And maybe it is. Because I’m in love with him and the impossible is happening. He’s kissing me and touching me and he feels so lovely in my arms, like my most delirious dream coming true.

I’ve never kissed anyone before, but he seems to know what he’s doing and I wonder if he’s ever been with anyone, the jealousy feeling like a dagger through my heart.

“I…” I manage to say in between kisses, “I’ve never…”

“Shh,” he whispers, his lips kissing a trail down my cheeks, on my neck and I gasp in surprise as he starts sucking just under my earlobe and a moan escapes my lips.

“Me neither,” he says, “I’ve only ever kissed one girl, before the war, when I was still in one piece. I’ve never been with anyone.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the bed and I feel like I’m in a dream as we take our shoes and socks off and he helps me get rid of my jacket, kissing me as he slides it down my arms. His fingers tremble on the buttons of my waistcoat while mine lower his braces, our lips colliding and tongues tasting and exploring, tentatively.

“I want you,” he says, his voice soft, like it’s a secret between us.

We lie on the bed, on our sides, and his hand rests on my hips, while mine cards through his hair. His curls are so soft and I could spend the whole night sliding my fingers through them.

I always dreamed of this moment. Of him actually wanting me the way I want him. I imagined ripping the clothes off him, licking and kissing and biting every inch of his skin and then begging him to fuck me, but this is so much nicer. More precious. We simply lie there and kiss for what feels like hours.

We kiss until my mouth feels pleasantly sore and his lips are wet and red, a sheepish smile curling the sides upwards.

“Can I?” he asks, touching the top button of my shirt and I nod.

“You may.”

He starts unbuttoning it slowly, kissing his way down my neck, smiling against my skin every time I let out a gasp or an embarrassing sound, until he gets to the last button. I help him get it off my shoulders, until I’m left there in front of him, bare chested and shivering out of nerves.

“You’re cold,” he whispers, “I will put more logs on the fire.”

“No,” I reply, taking his hand and putting it on my shoulder, “warm me up with your hands.”

He groans and pulls me closer, possessively, enveloping me in his warmth, his lips on my cheek, then suckling on my earlobe and tracing a path down my neck.

“You smell amazing,” he whispers, “you always do, but this is…this is so…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence and grinds his hips against mine and I suddenly realise that he’s hard. His cheeks are flushed as he glances up at me, an embarrassed look on his face.

“May I take your shirt off?” I ask and he hesitates for a moment, looking down. “I just want to touch you.”

“I…my scars…” he starts, avoiding my eyes, “they’ll put you off. They’re disgusting.”

I grab his hand and place it on my chest, where my heart is.

“Simon,” his eyes look up into mine, “they are not disgusting. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you. I love your scars, because they are part of you.”

I don’t think he believes me, but after a few seconds he starts undoing the buttons, slowly, one by one, and then tosses his shirt to one side.

“Maybe I should put out the fire,” he mutters.

“Don’t. I want to see you.”

I trace his collar bones with my fingertips and then gently move down, brushing against the hole left by the bullet on his chest, amid the constellations of freckles and moles on his skin. He shivers and closes his eyes, but he lets me trace all his scars with my fingers and then with my lips, until I see tears falling down his cheeks and I kiss them away.

He holds me close, his face hidden in the crook of my neck and he whispers that he wants me, that he’s scared, that he doesn’t really know what to do.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I want to feel you.”

My trembling fingers move down his chest, then I look at his eyes, silently asking him for permission to go lower and he nods, his eyes full of fear and desire and something else. Something that looks like affection, but that I’m too scared to even consider.

“Is this alright?” I ask hesitantly, as my hand reaches his trousers, and he whispers a soft _yes_.

I unbutton his trousers, with a shuddering breath, then he helps me lower them and he’s finally naked in front of me. And he’s so beautiful, lying on his side, his member erect and flushed dark.

He tries to cover his face with his hand, but I don’t let him, because I want to see all of him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” I tell him, “you’re so lovely and breath-taking and I want to touch every inch of your skin. I want to kiss you and feel you.”

“Baz…” he whines, then my fingers curl around his length and he holds his breath, “oh my god!”

I start stroking him, marvelling at the feel of his velvety skin under my hands, at the liquid gathered at the top, so much more than what I normally see on mine. I spread it with my thumb, then pull his skin over the head, twist my wrist and he moans loudly.

“I’m not going to last long,” he whimpers, “it’s all your fault.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, kissing his jaw and smiling, because I’m so happy that I feel like my heart might burst in my chest.

“I was… _aaah_ …” he tries to take deep breaths to calm down, “I was broken. My cock didn’t work after…after the war…but then you came along and…”

He turns his face into the pillow, panting and gasping, as my fingers move along his shaft, making him lose control.

“Look at me,” I tell him and he moves his face, his eyes half closed.

“Simon,” I lick his top lip and he groans, capturing my mouth in a heated kiss that leaves me hard and wanting.

“The smell of you,” he whispers, “the look of you. You made me feel again. You made me want again. And I have no control left when it comes to you.”

I feel something explode in my chest and I start stroking him harder, kissing him like I need him more than air, like he’s the only thing that matters. And he is.

He comes in white streaks, a low moan escaping his lips and entering mine, his warmth covering my fingers and making me even harder. I wait for him to catch his breath and I leave small kisses on his shoulders, on his chin, at the side of his lips.

“Baz…” he whispers and then his hands are on me, clumsy and trembling, struggling to get my trousers undone and swearing out loud.

“Bloody posh clothes,” he grumbles, “couldn’t you wear something simpler to take off, since you knew I was going to get you naked?”

And I can’t help but laugh, because Simon Snow is getting angry at my clothes and he’s so unbelievably sweet and he’s mine, all mine. At least for now.

I gasp when his calloused fingers finally come in contact with my skin and he gets rid of my trousers like they are an offensive item, which makes me smile even more.

He suddenly looks at me, his eyes dark, and then he spits on the palm of his hand. I should probably find it disgusting, but instead it turns me on even more. His hand hesitantly takes me and he starts pumping my dick, slowly at first, watching my face intently, checking that what he’s doing is fine.

“More…” I shudder under his touch, “faster, more…I want to feel you even more.”

His lips collide with mine and his movements become more confident and I feel myself slipping, falling apart in his arms, as he makes me feel a pleasure that I’ve never felt in my lonely miserable life.

“Oh my lord…” I try to suppress a moan, but I fail and he smiles, his other hand moving down, sliding down my hips and lifting my leg under the knee, exposing me even more. His fingers trace a pattern up my thigh, then gently cup my balls and I feel like I might die, like I can’t hold my pleasure any longer.

“Simon…” his name is like a confession on my lips as I give in and tip over the edge, coming in his fist, letting him stroke me until I’m spent and I’m a whimpering mess under his gaze.

“Fuck, Baz…you’re so gorgeous.”

“Look who’s talking,” I say with a sated smile, letting him put my leg down and climb over me to kiss me one more time, softly and with so much tenderness.

“I’ll get some warm water and a cloth to clean you up,” he says and I would like him to stay close to me for a while longer, but he’s already jumping off the bed, limping slightly on his injured leg as he puts some water on the fire and grabs a clean cloth from the laundry basket.

His naked body is so stunning in the dim light cast by the dying fire and I want to look at him for the rest of my life, finding new freckles and moles, hidden scars that tell me more about all the life that he’s lived.

He turns to clean himself and I can’t help but stare at his perfect arse, wanting to hold him again, to feel him against me.

“Can I please stay for the night?” I ask, the sudden thought of leaving him like a weight on my heart and he stares at me with wide eyes.

“Of course,” he replies and I dread him saying again that this is my property and I can do what I want, but instead he smiles at me and comes back to bed. He cleans me with incredible tenderness and then he cuddles up next to me.

“I’ll sneak out tomorrow morning, before everyone wakes up.”

He nuzzles my neck, his eyes already closed and his warm body pressed against mine, so warm and solid.

“Don’t leave without saying goodbye, this time,” he whispers.

“No,” I reply, then hopefully, “I want to kiss you goodbye.”

And the soft kiss he leaves on my neck makes me almost believe that this is not a dream and that tomorrow he will still want me. I close my eyes and let his soft breath lull me to sleep.

**Simon**

I wake up feeling his fingers in my hair, his warm body against mine. My eyes remain shut; I just enjoy the feeling of our naked bodies pressed so close under the blankets.

What if I opened my eyes and it was all a dream?

Yesterday was…it was something I never thought could ever happen. I try not to worry, not to think about what will happen from now on, once we leave the safety of my cottage and face the harsh reality of the outside world.

I wonder if he’s scared too.

He kisses my forehead and I can feel a smile forming on my lips, in spite of my anxiety.

“You’re not allowed to watch me sleep, just because we’ve spent the night together,” I say and he draws a breath.

I finally open my eyes and I realise that it’s still really early. I can barely see him in the dim light coming from the outside.

“Morning,” I say and he seems to relax, his eyes locking with mine, his fingers moving again, carding through my curls.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice groggy with sleep, a dishevelled look that makes my heart do a little summersault in my chest.

I want to ask him how on earth he manages to look so gorgeous in the early morning, but I feel silly and I start running my hand down his side instead, under the safety of the covers, feeling butterflies in my stomach when he blushes and moves closer.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, “I woke up and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About…about what happened last night. Do you regret it?”

I can see the fear in his eyes, but I think he’s more worried about me rejecting him than of other people finding out what we’ve done.

“No, I don’t regret it,” I say, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of his side, pulling him closer.

“I don’t want to leave,” he whispers, “keep me here. I can be your prisoner.”

I chuckle and playfully hold his wrist.

“If I kidnapped you, your aunt Fiona would probably find me and kill me in the most painful way she can imagine.”

“That she would do,” he confirms with a solemn look on his face.

“Come on, let’s get your clothes and get moving before everyone wakes up.”

I try to stand up, but he pulls me down, instead. He kisses me on the lips and I should probably argue that we’re going to get in trouble, that he needs to be on his way before someone realises that he has not slept in his bed, but I find myself grabbing his hips and then his arse, grunting as my cock hardens. He moans softly, his tongue sliding against mine, and then he starts moving, rocking his hips and I groan. This feels too good to be true.

“You’re going to make me get off again,” I tell him.

“Are you complaining?” he asks, long fingers curling around my cock, touching me like he did yesterday, with more confidence.

I push the blankets away, because I want to see him, because I’m desperate to see all of him. I spit on my hand and grab both of our cocks together, stroking them and making us both moan into each other’s mouth.

“You’re so hot,” he whispers, “oh my god. I never thought…”

My tongue slides once again into his mouth, claiming him and then his hand grabs my arse, possessively, his hips moving against mine.

“I’m going to come,” I warn him, because I know I won’t last long and I feel a bit embarrassed by my lack of control, but he drives me absolutely insane and he starts panting, like he’s overwhelmed by it all.

“Come for me,” he says, “come on me, Simon.”

And that’s all I need to moan his name, coming with a shuddering gasp all over his hand and his cock, feeling the pleasure rippling through me, down to my toes. I whimper softly, then reach for him, stroking him fast. The wet sounds produced by my come on his cock are so dirty and hot that I think I might get hard again straight away.

“Fuck,” he swears with his posh crispy tones and I feel a wave of affection towards this man, who is letting me touch his perfect body, who is giving me a second chance in life that I never thought I would get. A chance to want again, to feel good, to feel alive. To feel love.

He closes his eyes, his eyebrows creasing in pleasure as he comes, his fingers digging into my arse cheeks, a soft gasp escaping his lips.

“Simon…” he says my name, again and again, like a prayer, “Simon…”

“Baz,” I kiss his forehead, “I…”

I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. That I want him to stay, that I want to keep him tucked in, under the blankets, like a secret that is too good and precious to be let out in the open. Because it might disappear in the harsh light of the day.

And I want this to last. I want him so much.

But I still pry myself from his arms, fetch a cloth to clean him. We don’t have time to start a fire and warm up some water, because the morning is creeping up on us and the world is waking up.

We get dressed in silence. I try not to look at him, because I know that otherwise I will want to pull him back into my arms and drag him to bed. When he’s presentable, his shirt and trousers back on, socks and shoes retrieved from under the bed, I finally dare to get closer again, brushing his hair with my fingers.

“I don’t have a comb, sorry,” I apologise, because his hair’s a lovely mess. He kisses my lips as an answer and I try not to react, but my fingers still manage to curl around his wrist, my thumb brushing over his veins and tendons, over his scar.

“You need to go,” I whisper and pull away, reluctantly.

I unlock the door and open it, peeking outside, checking that there’s no one around.

“Will you walk with me?” he asks, sounding uncertain, scratching the inside of his elbow, his stormy eyes on mine. I nod, even though I know this is a terrible idea.

We walk in silence, our fingers brushing occasionally, until we reach the end of the woods and I stop. His hand grabs mine and he squeezes it, then he lets go and just lingers there, in between our two worlds, unable to move.

“I will see you later,” I say, as an encouragement. Because I know that he will come and find me, “I will be waiting for you.”

He nods and then leaves, running towards his manor, disappearing beyond a thick heavy door.

**Baz**

I feel like a different person.

I feel like I’ve shed my old skin and there’s a new me, with a brand-new heart beating madly in my chest, spelling out Simon’s name in Morse Code.

“Baz?” Niall asks, waving his hand in front of my face, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” I reply, finding both him and Dev staring at me. Mordelia is sniggering at the end of the table and Miss Penelope is giving me an odd look.

“As I was saying,” Dev continues, “Miss Penelope claims that female writers are just as good as male ones, if not better, and I would like your opinion on this outrageous statement.”

“Well,” I reply, trying to get my brain to start functioning again, “Jane Austen is a highly respected author and the Brontë sisters have produced some excellent novels.”

“Speaking of which,” Miss Penelope says, her eyes shining with satisfaction, “could I please borrow Jane Eyre, Sir Basilton?”

I completely forgot about it. I think she asked me a few weeks ago, but the book is still in Simon’s cottage.

“I’m afraid I’ve spilled some tea on it and I had to throw it away,” I explain, “I will buy a new copy and lend it to you.”

She seems to study me from the end of the table and nods, a serious look on her face.

“Well, shall we go hunting today?” Niall asks, “it has finally stopped raining and a walk in the woods would be nice.”

The woods.

Simon.

I nod and I feel my skin almost sizzling with want.

**Simon**

The hours go by and I feel the anxiety creeping under my skin, like a cold grip, making it hard to breathe.

What if he realises this is a huge mistake?

What if he tells someone?

What if he was simply curious and now he doesn’t want me anymore? What if I was just an itch to scratch and he’ll be rid of me now?

I try to keep my hands busy, to clean the house, to work on my little allotment behind the cottage.

The hours go by and I feel so restless that I can’t stop moving.

I can hear them approaching before I see them. His cousin is so bloody loud.

“Hey, gamekeeper!” he shouts at me, “keep your dog close; I don’t want him to ruin my trousers again.”

“We’re going hunting, Dev. I told you to wear something that could get dirty,” his friend tells him.

Baz appears behind them; his eyes are almost silver in the bright summer light. There’s a soft smile on his lips and I turn away, blushing, because my blood is suddenly boiling in my veins, images of last night and this morning flashing in my head. His skin under my fingers, his lips against mine, the sound of his voice in my ears, his release on my hand, warm and sticky.

“Snow,” his deep voice pulls me out of my daydreams.

“Sir Basilton,” I reply, staring at my shoes.

“We’re going hunting,” he says, “will you come with us?”

I nod, unable to say no. I get my rifle and tell Buckle to stay by the cottage, then I walk behind them, at a distance. Baz keeps on turning to cast glances at me and I avoid his eyes, afraid to fall apart under his gaze, to let our secret out, to give something away.

“Look, there!” shouts Dev and the pheasant flies away. He shoots at it anyway, missing by a mile. Baz and the other man laugh at him and then they start wandering around as we reach the thick of the woods.

Baz slows down, letting his friends walk ahead, the distance between us and them increasing with every step we take, until they disappear behind some trees and Baz stops. My feet freeze and I hold my breath when he turns and looks at me, again, but this time I hold his gaze.

“Simon,” he whispers, slowly moving closer.

I swallow loudly and take a step back. His eyebrows furrow in despair, as if he were in pain.

“Do you regret everything, then?” he asks and I open my mouth.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Do you…do you regret what happened?”

“No,” I shake my head, finally taking a step forward and then another, until I’m standing in front of him and I can almost smell him. “I don’t regret a thing. I…I’m just afraid…”

His trembling fingers touch my cheek and I falter.

“Wait, your friends,” I say and I can hear their voices, so far ahead that I can’t understand what they’re saying.

“They’re too distant to see us,” he says, his lips already on my neck, sucking and biting, making me gasp and bite on my lips, to avoid making any noise. His hands brush against my chest, then hold my hips and push me against the nearest tree, holding me close as he rocks his hips against mine.

The sound of a gun shooting and his cousin swearing in the distance make me whimper and he suddenly leaves my neck and lands on his knees in front of me. He look at me and I stare back at him, confused and aroused.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, “you’re going to get your trousers all muddy.”

“I want you,” he replies, his tone pleading, “I want to taste you. Please.”

I nod, against my better judgement. My eyes open wide, in surprise, and I suppress a moan as he unfastens my belt and then the buttons of my trousers come undone under his fingers. He lowers my trousers and my underwear and I’m already so hard that my cock bounces out, clearly happy to see him.

“Fuck,” I swear under my breath, feeling his cool breath hovering on my skin.

“Hmmm,” he tentatively licks the tip of my cock and I shudder, then his tongue runs along my whole length, from the root to the head, sucking on it briefly.

“Baz…I can’t…”

Does he know what he’s doing to me? Where has he learnt how to do this? I’ve heard other men talk about sex, about women touching them and sucking them. But I never thought it would happen to me one day. That it would happen with a man. With him.

He stares at my cock and then takes it all into his mouth and it’s all so hot and wet and tight, as he sucks on it and moans, like he’s the one losing his mind to pleasure.

I hear his friends, even further away than they were earlier, too far away to see us or to hear us. I swallow and my hands find his hair, sliding in the soft wavy locks, then cupping his cheek.

“Fuck, Baz…” I try to keep quiet, but I fail, because this is too much. My body is used to pain, to hard work, to the cold and the harsh reality of life. It has never experienced this kind of tenderness, this mind-blowing pleasure and intimacy, the gentle touch of his hands on my hips, his tongue swirling around the tip of my cock. He pulls away, then stares at me as he runs his tongue on my shaft.

“Come for me,” he says, like this morning, “come in my mouth.”

He swallows me whole and I groan as I close my eyes, because the sight of him on his knees, my cock in his mouth, red and slick with spit, that’s all too much to handle. I let myself sink into the pleasure, into this incredible feeling and then I let myself come into the heat of his mouth, down his throat and he swallows all of me, making a content sound.

“Oh, fuck…” I say, unable to catch my breath, “the way you make me feel.”

He stands up and helps me tuck away my spent cock inside my trousers, brushes away my trembling fingers and sorts out the buttons and the belt, taking care of me. I lean up and kiss him, hard on the mouth and he presses against me again, my back hitting the tree, his hard cock touching my lower belly, his lips claiming mine.

“Baz!” a voice calls from afar, getting closer, “where are you?”

“Shit,” I whisper, feeling my cheeks redden, checking my clothes and then wiping his mouth with my thumb. His lips are red and indecent.

I want to kiss him again.

I want to do to him what he did to me.

I hear voices approaching and I start panicking. His friends walk closer, chatting normally, and Baz steps away from me.

“There’s no game!” his cousin complains, “your woods are empty.”

“You’re too loud,” Baz replies, “you’re scaring all the animals away.”

“Let’s head back,” his friend replies, “I’m bored.”

We walk back to my cottage in silence and I can’t help but think about what it would feel like to be the one touching him like that. To have my lips around his cock. He turns and his grey eyes lock with mine, burning a hole through me, filling me with a wave of desire. My fingers move, before I even realise what I’m doing, and they brush against his, for a few seconds.

“What are we having for dinner?” his cousin asks and I freeze, putting my hands back in my pocket.

They walk in front of me and this time he doesn’t turn to look at me, not for a few minutes at least, but then he slows down, lets them talk to each other and his hand moves to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine.

“I still want you,” he whispers in my ear, leaning closer for a split second. I close my eyes and shudder, my cock stirring in my trousers. God, I’m getting hard again and I’ve come not even fifteen minutes ago. I think about it, about my dick in his mouth, my come down his throat and I feel my face catching fire, my fingers sliding out of my pockets to reach for him. We’re nearly at the cottage, when my hand shoots out and grabs his. He turns and stares at me, his eyes full of heat and desire.

I let go and just look at him, trying to tell him with my eyes how much I want him, how much I need him. I let go of his hand and he catches up with his friends.

“Chaps,” he says, tapping his cousin on the shoulder, “I left my gloves in Snow’s cottage the other day. I’m going to go get them. We also need to go over the renovation work, so I might be a while. Why don’t you go ahead and I will meet you for lunch?”

They nod and take the path that leads to the manor. We just stand there, waiting for them to leave and then he grabs my hand and we walk as fast as we can, nearly run to my home, shutting the door behind us, locking it and then I sink to my knees, pushing him against the wall.

“My turn,” I say and his eyes are so dark with desire that I could drown in them.

**Baz**

“So, did you find your gloves?” Niall asks, when I arrive empty handed.

I stare at him, confused, and then I remember my excuse to disappear with Snow.

“No, I must have misplaced them.”

Miss Penelope frowns and gives me an odd look. I swallow and excuse myself, saying that I need to take a bath.

I feel my cheeks colouring as I go up the stairs, thinking about what happened in the woods, then in his cottage. About the feeling of his heavy cock on my tongue, about his pink lips stretched around my member, my release at the corner of his mouth, his fingers swiping it clean. He sucked on them, making me moan again. He looked indecent and so lovely. I would have taken him again, but it was time to go.

Dev and Niall are leaving tomorrow and then he’s going to be all mine.

I count the hours that separate us.

**Simon**

I’m preparing dinner when I suddenly hear a soft knock on the door and a smile appears on my face.

“Come in! Are you back already? I wasn’t expecting you this evening.”

I freeze when I realise that it’s Miss Penelope, who opens the door and then eyes me curiously.

“Who did you think it was, Simon?” she asks and I desperately try not to blush, to look composed.

“No one, what can I do for you?”

She studies me for a few minutes and then she finally shuts the door and sits down at the table, handing me an envelope.

“Shepard’s letter has arrived this morning,” she says, handing it to me.

I open it excitedly and something falls out of it. It’s a small photo of him, a grin on his face. God, I missed him!

“He sent a photo,” I tell Miss Penelope, showing her. She carefully takes it into her hands and there’s a faint bush on her cheeks as she stares at it.

“He looks like a fine young man,” is her only comment.

“Would you like to keep it?” I ask, elbowing her and she starts huffing, pretending to be outraged, but putting the picture inside her pocket with a quiet ‘thank you’.

I open the letter and realise that there are several sheets of paper, two of which are folded and tied together with some thin lace.

“It says ‘for Miss Penelope’,” I read and hand it to her. She accepts it with raised eyebrows and just holds it for a while, without opening it. “Don’t you want to find out what he has written to you?”

“I prefer reading it later,” she says and I chuckle, making her blush.

I read mine and then tell her what’s new. We chat a bit about Shepard, America and Mordelia, then she falls silent and seems to be thinking about something.

“Simon?”

“Miss Penelope,” I reply.

“I like you and I don’t want you to get in trouble,” she says, looking at me through her thick glasses.

“I’m not in trouble,” I reply, cautiously, because I don’t know what she means.

“I’m your friend,” she states and then she holds my hand for a few seconds, “please be careful.”

She leaves me alone with my thoughts and I wonder what she meant. If I’m getting myself in trouble. If I’m doing the right thing. If he’s going to come back tomorrow.

**Baz**

Dinner drags and then I’m stuck playing chess with Niall. Dev wants to drink and I end up feeling tipsy and maudlin. I miss Snow and I crave to be in his cottage right now, to touch him and kiss him and whisper to him how much I want him and care for him.

I want to tell him that I love him.

I want to feel him so close that I don’t know where he starts and I end.

I go to bed and I can’t fall asleep, so I get up and look outside. The light in his cottage is still on. It’s faint, but I can see it in the darkness of the woods.

I wonder if he’s thinking about me, if he’s awake and remembering what we did yesterday and this morning.

I can’t think of anything else.

**Simon**

I wait and I wait, knowing full well that his guests haven’t left yet, but I still get nervous, the anxiety chipping away at my sanity.

What if he doesn’t want me anymore?

What if he’s decided that his friend is a more suitable companion than me?

I try to keep myself busy, repairing the northern gates, planting new trees, tending to my allotment. I’m getting some chickens next week and I spend some time building a new coop for them, then I have lunch and in the afternoon I work some more. I’m so sweaty that I decide to wash and then do the laundry.

I’m putting the clothes and the bedsheets on the line to dry when he finally arrives. His eyes are shining, his hair ruffled by the wind. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks, as if he has run all the way here.

“Hello,” he says, his voice low, tentative.

“Hi,” I whisper, my hands wet and trembling, struggling to put the peg in place.

“Dev and Niall have just left,” he explains, “and I came here as fast as I could.”

I nod, because I don’t know what to say, how to get rid of this awkwardness, how to cross the distance that separates us.

“How are you?” he asks, moving one step close, “can I help you with the laundry?”

“I’m fine,” I say, kneeling down to grab the last few items from the basket, “I’m nearly done. Are you feeling well?”

“Jolly good,” he answers, biting on his lower lip.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, thinking of a way to lure him in, to step away from the sun, which makes everything look so bright and impossible.

“Yes,” he replies, eager, moving towards my cottage before I have even grabbed my basket from the ground. I follow him inside and he shuts the door behind me, his eyes glued to my back. The fire isn’t even on and I don’t know what I’m doing. Is he actually expecting tea?

I hear the faint noise of the curtains being pulled shut and then I sigh when the room grows dark. I close my eyes and hear him move behind me, his body getting closer, his chest pressing against my back. His hands slide along my hips and I hold my breath as I feel his warm breath against my neck. I tilt my head to bare it, presenting my skin to him and he places his lips in the sensitive spot where he kissed a bruise yesterday, making me gasp as he leaves open-mouthed kisses on my skin, his fingers roaming on my chest, working on the buttons of my shirt, exposing me, until all is left of me is a whimpering mess.

“I missed you,” he whispers in my ear, “I missed you like air.”

“Missed you too,” I moan, my cock thickening in my trousers. I hold his wrist and guide him there and he groans when he feels how ready I am for him.

“You make me so hard,” I mumble, “only you. I can only get hard for you.”

“Simon…” he whimpers and then we’re both lost in each other’s arms.

The outside world is forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to post chapter 6 later on in the week and then chapter 7 next weekend.  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny gets suspicious and Fiona brings a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shiny and heart-shaped thank you to [ Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis) and to all the people who left comments and kudos.💙
> 
> Trigger warning for war memories. (more specifically a severed hand and a soldier stuck in the mud) I took the hand scene from the book “La main coupée” by Blaise Cendrars and the other memory is from various articles I read about soldiers sinking or drowning in the mud. If you think this might be too much for you, feel free to skip the second part (Baz’s POV).
> 
> Additional trigger warning for alcohol consumption (Baz gets a bit tipsy, nothing worse than canon).

_“But if you wake up and you’re still afraid,_

_Hold my hand again._

_It doesn’t matter if I’ve fallen, if I’m far away._

_Because tomorrow will be_

_a long day without words,_

_Because tomorrow will be_

_a day of uncertainty, of clouds and sun._

_But where, where is your love?_

_Where is your love gone?”_

_Fabrizio De André, “Hotel Supramonte”_

**Simon**

He’s lying on the bed, next to me. His skin is glowing, the fire illuminating it behind his back. I’ve got his hard cock in my hand and I’m stroking him slowly, teasing the tip, sliding his foreskin over it and then gently pulling.

“Ahh…” I love how vocal he is during sex, the lovely sounds he makes, the way his cheeks flush the prettiest shade of pink, how his cock fills up for me. I’ve come only a few moments ago, in his delicious mouth, and I feel a shiver running down my spine. I think I’m getting hard again and I don’t even know how that’s possible.

We’re completely naked, lying in my bed, the blankets in a messy pile at our feet. I slide my hand down his hip, pull him closer and start kissing him, gently, then my tongue darts out and licks his lips, which open straight away, granting me access. He moans softly as I kiss him, then his fingers wrap around my cock and start stroking me again. I still feel sensitive from coming a few minutes ago and I shudder.

“Look what you do to me,” I whisper against his lips, “before meeting you, I couldn’t even get it up.”

He smiles, that mischievous smile of his that shows his sharp canines, and then he kisses me again, chastely.

“Tell me something else about you,” he whispers, “something that I don’t know. Something that no one knows.”

I hum and close my eyes, enjoying the feeling of his long fingers on my thickening cock. We’ve been using his posh oil to touch each other and it feels so nice. He left it in my cottage a few weeks ago, when it all started, and we’re already half-way through the bottle (he said he was going to order some more). He’s put it in the drawer I set aside for him, with all his things. I’ve caught him opening it and staring at it several times, a soft smile on his lips as he contemplated all the things he’s left behind and I’ve carefully folded and hidden there, like the best secret I’ve ever been allowed to keep.

“I…” I start, thinking about how far I can go with my confessions, keeping my eyes shut, “I touch myself when you’re not here, especially when you can’t spend the night.”

There’s silence and then his hand picks up a steady pace, making me groan and stroke him faster in return.

“I do it too. I’ve been doing it since I met you. You’ve been on my mind all the time,” he says, his voice low, “tell me something else, please.”

“I don’t like broccoli,” I say, opening my eyes and loving the smile that blooms on his beautiful face.

“I hate Brussel sprouts,” he confesses, kissing my nose.

“I…” shall I say it? I lick my lips and whimper, as his thumb slides on the head of my cock, into the slit, “I smell your scarves and your clothes and it turns me on. I get off on it.”

“Simon…” he moans, moving closer, grabbing our cocks in his hand and stroking them languidly, “I put my fingers inside and think about you fucking me.”

I stare at him and feel a fire through my veins, imagining it, wanting to see him do it. My hands roam down his back, grabbing his arse, my fingers sliding between his soft cheeks.

“I want to see you,” I whisper, “I want to feel it.”

“You can do it, if you want,” he says, his lips capturing mine in a searing kiss that leaves me breathless and so aroused that I could come again straight away.

He shifts and grabs the bottle of oil from the floor, then he pours some onto my fingers and kisses me again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, unsure about what I’m supposed to do.

“Just do it slowly, love, one finger at a time,” he tells me with a smile and then he lies on his back, spreading his legs and hooking his hands under his knees. I stare at him and he just looks breath-taking, with his cock so stiff and leaking, his soft skin glowing in the dim light and his tight hole, waiting for me.

I move closer, positioning myself between his legs, then I tentatively touch him, starting from his cock and then cupping his balls, moving my hand, until I rub my middle finger against his rim. He whimpers and closes his eyes. I gently push and it’s so tight that I gasp, but he tells me to continue and I slide it inside, so slowly, knuckle by knuckle, until my whole finger is seated inside him.

“Does that hurt?” I ask, my voice so low.

“No, it feels nice,” he replies, “it feels even better if you slide it in and out, love.” 

My heart clenches in my chest every time he calls me ‘love’, like a promise of something we haven’t told each other yet. It’s just a matter of time for me, because my feelings threaten to burst out of my chest every time I’m with him.

I start moving, cautiously, in and out, and the way his breath hitches in his throat, the needy little sounds he makes, his hand grabbing my shoulder, it all makes me believe that I’m actually making him feel good. He lifts his hips and moans.

“There, Simon, please…” I curl my finger a bit and he opens his eyes wide and gasps, “fuck, there, please add another finger.”

I pull out and he groans, but before he can start complaining I add my index finger as well and then he’s moaning and calling my name, over and over again, falling apart under me in the most beautiful way.

“Come here, love,” he begs, “I want to kiss you, please.”

I move, but my fingers keep on sliding in and out of him, as my lips collide with his and he sighs into my kiss. My cock brushes against his and we both gasp, then he holds them both in his fist and he starts pumping us, while his tongue slides against mine, until he tenses under me and goes still, coming really hard. I feel him clenching around my fingers, releasing his hot come and painting his belly with it. I break the kiss to look at him, to take in how stunning he is, all messy and flushed, his eyes locking with mine and the expression of pure bliss on his face.

“Simon…” he whispers.

I kiss him and kiss him, until I’m about to come again, his fingers still moving on me.

“Come on me, love,” he says, “mark me as yours.”

That’s all I need to let go and feel the orgasm ripping through me, down to my toes, closing my eyes and shouting his name as I come all over him, my hot come all over his hand and his chest.

“Oh, fuck…” I try to catch my breath, “Baz…”

“Kiss me,” he whispers and I do, again and again.

**Baz**

I wake up with a jolt, his hand squeezing my arm too tight, a whimper escaping his mouth. I turn and look at him, he’s moving, his head sinking into the pillow, with a pained expression on his face.

“Uugh…” he groans in his sleep, his fingers still clenched tight around me.

“Simon, love,” I whisper, trying to wake him up gently and to get him to let go of me, before he hurts me, “it’s just a bad dream. Wake up, love.”

He groans and suddenly starts screaming and he scares me to death, the guttural sounds coming out of his mouth making me shiver and wrap him in my arms. The dog wakes up too and he starts barking in the darkness. Simon screams again, but I hold him close, caressing his hair as I whisper in his ear that I’m there, that he’s not alone, that it’s just a nightmare. Until I hear him sob, his body finally relaxing, going limp in my arms, his fingers letting go of me. I hug him tighter and stroke his back, waiting for him to calm down, when he actually starts crying like a child, sobbing and hiccupping, wetting my shirt with his tears.

“Hey, love…” I kiss his curls, then his forehead, “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

“There was…” he starts saying, then he shudders and continues crying, “the hand…”

“A hand?” I ask, confused.

“In the mud…” he replies and I don’t know what to say, because I think he might still be dreaming but then he snuggles closer, his face buried in my neck and his trembling hands finally reach for me. “There was a hand stuck in the mud. In the trenches.”

It’s like a bucket of cold water over my head. I wasn’t expecting him to tell me about the war; he never wants to talk about it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to comfort him.

“It was just a bad dream,” I say, softly, trying to reassure him, but he shakes his head.

“It was real…I saw it…”

“Sometimes dreams seem real, but you’re here now. You’re safe.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I saw it in Belgium. There was a hand stuck in the mud, on the ground. Severed. Like it was waving…it was moving in my dream, Baz, it…it was…”

I press my body against his, wrapping him tight, afraid he might break if I let go of him. And he continues crying, until he calms down and asks for a handkerchief to wipe his nose. I stand up and look for one in the pocket of my discarded trousers, then hand it to him. Buckle goes to him and Simon pats his head, reassuring him that everything is fine now. The room is cold; summer’s nearly over and the days are getting shorter and wetter. I light a fire again, give him a few minutes to be on his own with his memories and then I go back to him, sit on the bed next to him.

His eyes are all puffy and red and his nose is pink. His lips are still trembling, nervously caught between his teeth.

“Please don’t leave,” he whispers, a lonely tear falling down his cheek, “please…”

I grab his hand and bring it to my mouth, kissing his fingers softly, then placing it on my cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here with you, love.”

“Th-thanks,” his voice breaks and I climb back into bed with him, pulling the covers over us, letting his head rest on my chest. His breathing becomes less irregular and I think he’s finally fallen asleep, when he speaks again, his voice soft in the dim light cast by the fire.

“There was a man…” he starts, then pauses for a minute, “an Australian.”

“Hmm,” I wait for him to continue, not wanting to pressure him.

“He was stuck…”

“Stuck?” I ask, when he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“He fell from No Man’s Land into a disused trench,” he whispers, “and he got stuck in the mud…up to his neck.”

“God…” I can’t help but shudder at the thought and his fingers slide down my arm, then interlace with mine.

“We spent all night trying to get him out. Digging until our hands were bleeding, swearing, promising that we would dig him out.”

I want to ask if they did, but I’m terrified of the answer.

“By morning, we all knew it was a lost cause,” he says, his voice like a violin cord, tense and ready to snap, “he kept on slipping further down. There was too much mud and it kept on raining. On and on, nonstop rain. I felt like I was drowning, like I was breathing water.”

I kiss his forehead, his fingers squeezing mine.

“By morning, he was begging us to shoot him, to just end him. Because he couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Simon…” I whisper, closing my eyes, wishing that I had the right words in me to make it all better, to make him feel better.

“They moved me to another trench and I left him there, surrounded by other soldiers covered in mud, who had lost all hope. No one knew what to do,” he pauses and breathes. In and out, in and out. “His name was John.”

“John,” I repeat, a lump in my throat, a burning feeling in my eyes.

“Sometimes it keeps me up at night. Not knowing what happened to him. If he died. How he died.”

I feel tears falling down my cheeks and I hold him impossibly closer, and then I start singing to him. It’s a lullaby my mother used to sing to me, when I couldn’t sleep and I was woken up by bad dreams. I murmur the words softly in his ears, until he falls asleep, until he mumbles something that sounds like my name.

I stay awake, in case he has another nightmare.

**Simon**

I wake up feeling groggy, my eyes puffy and my throat dry. Baz’s arms are still around me, his breathing soft, next to my face. I disentangle myself from his embrace and stand up to get some water. Buckle wags his tail and licks my hand.

“Good boy,” I whisper and I hear Baz moving behind me.

“Hmmm…” he mumbles in his sleep and I just sit there and look at him.

I know he keeps on coming here because he’s somehow attracted to me (god knows why), but last night he was so soft to me. He listened to me and then he sang me to sleep. No one had ever done that before, not even when I was little. When he does things like that, I can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s something more between us. If maybe he loves me too. Because I love him so much and I’m so terrified that he might change his mind or realise that I’m not good enough for him.

He stirs and opens his eyes, a small smile appearing on his lips as he sees me.

“Morning,” I whisper, unsure how to face him after last night.

“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his voice hoarse. I hand him a glass of water and scratch the back of my head, tugging at my curls.

“I’m fine,” I reply, “I’m sorry about last night.”

“What for?” he asks, looking surprised.

“For waking you up like that and for keeping you awake. Sometimes I have nightmares and I can be loud…You probably didn’t get much sleep. Maybe you should stop spending the night here…”

He stands up and comes to me, wearing only a shirt and his underwear. He kneels down in front of me and his hand rests on my knee.

“I’m not going to stop sleeping here just because you had a nightmare. I want to be close to you. Unless you want me to stop coming.”

I shake my head vigorously and hold his hand.

“No, I like it when you’re here. I like feeling you close,” I whisper and he brings his lips up to mine, brushing them for the briefest moment, making me chase after his mouth.

“Can I stay for breakfast?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” I ask, worrying about people finding him gone and looking for him here.

“I can always say that I went out for an early morning walk,” he says with a smile.

“I don’t have much for breakfast,” I say sheepishly, “just some bread and Vera’s jam.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

I wash my face in a basin and then get dressed. He sets the table and I slice the bread and I feel my heart thumping madly in my chest. Because I would do anything to have this every day. To have him here, next to me, making breakfast, touching his hand as I give him a steaming cup of tea and having him smiling back at me fondly. I feel overwhelmed with love for him, those three little words threatening to burst out of my lips.

But I can’t tell him.

“Baz,” I say and he looks up, the corner of his lips stained with raspberry jam, “thank you.”

**Baz**

He’s worried about getting caught, but I still manage to convince him to walk me home. I lace my fingers with his as we make our way through the woods, the early morning mist making everything seem like an odd dream.

He stops, as always, once the path ends and my gardens begin.

“You could come in,” I whisper, “I could smuggle you in and keep you as a prisoner in my room.”

He chuckles and shakes his head.

“And who’s going to look after your woods, if you keep me as a pet in your posh manor?”

“Sod my woods, I would have you to myself all the time.”

He reaches for my lips and kisses me softly, for only a split second, and then his hand leaves mine and he disappears in the darkness of the woods.

“I will see you later,” he says, unmoving, waiting for me to go.

I know he will be watching me, hiding, until I cross the threshold.

“I’ll miss you,” I whisper and then I turn and leave.

**Simon**

“Simon?” Miss Penelope’s voice calls from the outside as I’m making myself some lunch.

“In here!” I shout. The door is open and she comes in, Buckle following behind her.

I ask her if she wants anything to eat, but she has already had lunch and she sits down next to me, taking a piece of paper out of her pocket.

“I’ve written a letter,” she says, avoiding my eyes, “to Shepard.”

“Looks like someone is smitten,” I tease her, grinning, and then I elbow her gently, making her blush.

“I just thought it would be polite to answer his letter, since he was so kind to think of me,” she explains.

“That’s nice,” I say, filling my mouth with bread and cheese, “I’ve nearly finished writing mine. We can send them together, to save money on stamps.”

“Simon, you shouldn’t speak with your mouth full,” she reprimands me, shaking her head, “and look at your shirt. It’s all ruined.”

I look down and blush. Half of the buttons are missing, there’s a gash at the top. My mind wanders to the memories of how it happened. Of his eager fingers on me, his lips on my neck, his hands sliding under my shirt, wanting it gone in an instant. I remember how dark his eyes were when I told him to just rip it open. I close my eyes, thinking about the noise of the fabric breaking, the buttons flying and hitting the floor, his mouth on me. His lips around my cock. His fingers inside me, sliding in and out, for the first time. I didn’t think I would like it, but it felt amazing. Like the best kind of intrusion, like he was closer than he’d ever felt. I wanted to ask for more. I wanted his cock inside me, but I was too scared to ask. Terrified of stepping into a fire I have no idea how to put off.

“Simon?” Miss Penelope asks and I open my eyes again, feeling my cheeks on fire.

“Sorry,” I scratch my nose, “I got distracted.”

“I can mend your shirt,” she says, eyeing me curiously, “where is your sewing kit?”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say, standing up to clear the table, desperate to find something to do, to keep my thoughts at bay, “it’s in the chest of drawers. It should be in the top one.”

I put the bread and the cheese away and hear her rummaging through my possessions.

“This is such a mess!” she complains, “you literally shoved a bunch of random things in here and there’s no telling where anything is. What’s a single sock doing next to a spanner? Honestly!”

“It’s there, I swear!”

There’s more rummaging and complaining and then silence. A gasp.

“Simon?” she asks, her voice shaking, “what’s the meaning of this?”

I turn and find her staring at Baz’s drawer, her eyes open wide.

“I…I…” I try to think of an excuse, of something smart to say, “I told you it was in the top one!”

“Why do you have a drawer full of Sir Basilton’s clothes? And his books too!” she starts taking things out, shaking her head, “I told you to be careful!”

“He…he…” I try to think, but I feel panic rising in my chest, cold sweat on my back, “he keeps on leaving his things here and I didn’t want them to get dirty. I just put them away.”

“Why not return them, then?” she asks, her eyes burning holes through me.

“He keeps on forgetting,” I reply, and for once I’m not even lying.

“Have you actually been stealing them?” she asks, looking horrified.

“No!” I shout, “how could you think that of me? I’m not a thief!”

“What is this bottle?” she asks, pointing at the oil and I bite my lips, unable to find an answer. She puts everything down and shuts the drawer. She walks to me and takes my trembling hands into hers.

“Simon, he’s the lord of Pitch Manor,” she says, very slowly, “he has power, wealth, the world at his feet. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I won’t,” I say, shaking my head, “everything is fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, her eyebrows coming together in a worried line.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I lie, “just storing his things. I will give them back the next time I see him.”

She stares at me for a few minutes and then lets go of my hands.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” she says and I nod.

“Thank you, Miss Penelope.”

“I think it’s about time you start calling me just Penny. We’re friends, remember?”

I finally look her in the eyes and see them filled with worry and something else. Affection.

“Friends,” I repeat.

And I wish I could do as she says. Be careful. Not get wrapped up in something dangerous and illegal. But I’m too far gone. I’m in love with him and I want him so badly.

I can’t stop seeing him.

So I lie to her and tell her that everything is fine. That I will give him back his clothes. And when she’s gone, I hide them somewhere else.

Another secret to add to the pile I’m already carrying in my heart.

**Baz**

The car arrives as I’m about to leave for the woods. I stop in my tracks and stare, as the car door opens and Fiona’s legs appear. She struggles to get out with her long tight skirt, while a gentleman opens the door to the driver’s side and runs to help her.

“I would have opened the door for you, Fi.”

“I can get out of the car on my own, thanks Lamb!” she says, raising an eyebrow. The gentleman turns and sees me, a broad smile covering his beautiful features.

“You must be Basil,” he says, in a charming tone that annoys me straight away. Only Fiona is allowed to call me that.

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” I say, holding out my hand in what I hope comes across as indifference. He is extremely good looking and exudes confidence and wealth. I have no intention to be another one of his admirers.

“Basil, this is my friend Lamb,” my aunt says, finally managing to extricate herself from the car, “we were in the area and decided to drop by to visit you.”

“In the area?” I ask, showing my disbelief with a raised brow. I live in the middle of the New Forest; what on earth were they ‘in the area’ for? I know straight away that she’s plotting something.

“Come on, we’re thirsty and tired and require dinner and a bed for the night. Make way,” she commands, as if _she_ were the Lady of the Manor.

I frown, annoyed by the fact that I can’t go and see Simon, worried that he might think I didn’t want to be with him this evening. As I take them in and ask my butler to show them to the guest rooms, I think of a way to sneak out after dinner, to warn him of the arrival of my guests. I hide in my room and stare at the woods from my window, when suddenly there’s a soft knock on my door.

“Come in,” I say, expecting my aunt and finding her companion instead.

“Basil,” he says, “I was wondering if you could be so kind as to keep me company. Your aunt has lamented a terrible headache and she said she won’t join us for dinner.”

“It’s Basilton,” I reply, “and that sounds like an excuse from my aunt’s part.”

He shrugs and smiles, but somehow, it’s completely different from the way my Simon does it. It looks staged on Lamb, like another one of his moves. He’s like a big feline, ready to pounce, just waiting for the right time.

I decide to give in and keep him company, at least until after dinner time, because I’m the lord of the Manor and that is my role, after all. And I’m actually positively surprised by how charming he is, by how much he knows about literature and architecture. We discuss our favourite books for hours and by the time dinner is served, I feel comfortable enough with him sitting next to me, instead of at the other end of the table (he insists on it, saying that it’s silly to shout across a room).

He keeps on filling my glass with wine and I don’t normally drink, so I feel pleasantly warm and tipsy, laughing at his jokes and at his impression of Fiona (absolutely spot on). I think about Simon when dessert comes, I cast a glance towards the window, but he grabs my elbow and convinces me to have another drink in the sitting room. And I give in, because I want to be polite and because I feel a bit too drunk to sneak out of the Manor at this late hour without getting caught.

“So, what does a charming young man like yourself normally do in this lonely corner of the world, with no one to keep him company?” he asks, crossing his leg and smiling at me.

“I read a lot,” I reply, “play my violin. Walk in the woods.”

“Is that it? That is such a waste!” he exclaims, “you are a fine and gorgeous young man with an impressive intellect. It’s a supreme shame to have you withering here on your own.”

I want to say that I’m not on my own. That I have Simon. That I’ve finally found a reason to live, but I can’t.

“What would you have me do? Get married and settle down?” I reply instead. His piercing gaze pins me down and he smiles in a sly way that makes me shiver.

“Oh, I think we both know that marriage and children is not the kind of future that you crave,” he says, slowly, “but there’s more to life than rotting in an empty Manor in the middle of the woods.”

“Like what?” I ask, curious.

“There’s a world out there for people like us, Basilton.”

“Like _us_?”

“You know,” he smiles, uncrossing his legs and shifting closer on the sofa, “there is life out there. Gentlemen’s clubs and houses for people who are not interested in the charms of the gentle sex and prefer male company instead.”

In spite of the alcohol I feel a shiver running down my spine and I gape at him. How does he know? Have I been that evident?

“There’s no need to panic,” he tells me, his hand gently touching my elbow, “I’m like you.”

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” I say, moving away, but he grabs my wrist.

“Your secret is safe with me. Your aunt told me, because she was worried about you and she felt you might need some guidance.”

“I am going to murder Fiona,” I mutter, with rage in my voice, like a sobering bucket of water. How could she?

“She only meant well. You shouldn’t be mad at her,” he says with a calm smile, “she knows your father has been putting pressure on you to settle down and she wanted you to feel confident enough with your choices.”

I relax a bit when he says that, thinking that maybe Fiona actually had my best interests at heart, even though I’m still going to shout at her tomorrow morning. Lamb’s hand is still pressed against my wrist, grounding me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

“I’m happy here,” I say it out loud for the first time and I realise that it’s the truth.

I’ve never felt happy anywhere. I’ve always felt like I was missing something important. I thought that my illness was taking away part of my humanity, that I was living half a life, unable to do the things that I wanted to do. I was locked in a protective fancy cage, in an attempt to keep me safe. I was actually the one who didn’t want to live. I was the one denying myself what I craved. All I needed was Simon in my life. He’s made me full. He’s made me believe that even my life is worth living.

And I just want to go back to him, to the life I’ve built with him.

I miss him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m tired and a little drunk. I think it’s best if I retire.” 

“I’ll escort you to your rooms,” Lamb says, helping me get up.

We walk up the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, and when we reach my room, he moves closer, his face tilts up towards mine and I take a step back.

Am I drunk or was he trying to kiss me?

“Goodnight, Lamb,” I say, confused.

“Goodnight, Basilton,” he replies with a smile.

**Simon**

He didn’t come yesterday.

He said he would be there for dinner and I made him the stew that he really liked last week, but he never turned up.

I wonder if something came up or if he was unwell. I always worry that he might injure himself or be taken ill and no one would even dream to come and tell me (maybe Penny would; I think she suspects something).

Perhaps he’s fed up with me…

I wake up early and walk to the end of the woods, then I hide behind a tree to look at the Manor in the morning mist. It’s so big and imposing, like a massive reminder of how little I am, how insignificant. Of the difference between me and him.

I notice a car parked in the driveway.

Maybe he had guests. I relax and walk back to my cottage, then I make myself and Buckle some breakfast and decide to go hunting. I will make him the stew again, but I need fresh game.

I grab my rifle and this time I get Buckle to come with me. I need to train him; I can’t always have him barking at hares and scaring them off. But I’m distracted and my mind keeps on wandering off to black hair, stormy eyes, gentle hands running down my back as if I was something fragile and precious, as if I was made of butterfly wings.

I love him so much that sometimes I struggle to breathe.

It takes me ages to catch something, because the dog keeps on barking and I’m too distracted, so it’s nearly lunchtime by the time I get back.

I find him waiting for me by the door, sitting on my chair with a heavy book between his hands.

“Hey,” I say with a smile, when our eyes meet.

“I’m so sorry about yesterday,” he replies, his voice a little rough, “my aunt Fiona came unannounced and uninvited with her friend and I got stuck at the Manor.”

“No worries,” I reply, relieved, “you look tired, though.”

“I got a bit drunk,” he confesses, looking away with an embarrassed expression.

Something is off. He’s acting a bit weird.

“Simon…” he starts saying, but then there’s a noise on the path and we both turn. A gentleman wearing the finest clothes and a charming smile walks towards us, as if he owned the place.

“That’s where you were hiding,” he tells Baz, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Lamb…” Baz whispers, looking at me and then back at him.

“I wanted to spend some more time with you,” the gentleman says, stepping so close to Baz. Too close. “I wanted to continue our conversation from last night.”

Baz is still sitting on my chair and his eyes open wide when the man’s fingers trace a line on his jaw, cupping his pale cheeks, moving closer.

“Let’s go back inside,” he murmurs, inches away from Baz’s mouth.

“Don’t touch me, please,” Baz says, his voice low, his fingers gently moving the man’s hand away from his face. He stands up, readjusting his clothes, looking at me with a desperate light in his eyes. And I feel like I might set the world on fire. Like I’m about to snap and go off.

“Fiona wants to speak to you, let’s go,” the man says, grabbing Baz’s wrist and pulling him towards him.

“He said not to touch him,” I say through clenched teeth, “so keep your hands off him.”

He raises his eyebrows and seems to notice me for the first time.

“Excuse me and who might you be?”

“I’m his gamekeeper,” I reply angrily. And I wish I could say that I’m his and Baz is mine. To keep his filthy hands off him. That I’m going to kill him if he lays even a finger on my man.

But I can’t.

He sneers and puts his hand on Baz’s back.

“And what are you going to do, if I touch him?” Lamb murmurs. Baz moves away, but my hands are already on my rifle and I get it off my shoulder, glaring at him. His mouth opens wide and he steps away from Baz, his hands up in the air, in surrender.

“No need to get mad, Mr gamekeeper,” he says, “I was only taking Basilton to his aunt.”

He takes a step back and walks down the path.

“The war is over and we’re still alive,” he says, turning to look at Baz, “it’s time to live, not to bury yourself alive in an old Manor with a gamekeeper.”

Baz stares at me, his eyes looking confused and lost.

“Simon…” he whispers, “I…”

“Go,” I reply, “you need to go.”

I turn and walk back into the woods. Where I belong.

**Baz**

I’m going to kill her.

I’m going to fucking kill her.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” I shout at her, as soon as I open the door to her bedroom.

“I beg your pardon?” she says with an outraged expression.

“Everything was fine. Father was gone and I was finally moving on with my life. I was finally happy and you came and ruined it!” I accuse her, throwing her glass of water against the wall, enjoying the sound it makes as it shatters into a million pieces. Fiona jumps and steps back.

“Basil, I was just trying to help,” she says.

“Well, stop meddling in!” I shout and then I notice the look of pure terror on her face and immediately deflate, dropping down on an armchair. I sink my face into my hands and groan.

“I’ve ruined everything now,” I whine, “he hates me.”

“Who? Lamb?” she asks, cautiously moving closer.

“No,” I reply, “but he’s part of the problem. What were you thinking, bringing him here?”

“I just wanted to help. To make you understand that there’s life outside of here.”

“But I have a life here,” I say, looking at her, “I have love here. And I’m happy.”

“Love?” she asks. Her grey eyes lock with mine and they study me for what feels like ages. Then she gasps and looks outside of the window.

“Surely not…” she says, covering her mouth with her hand, “not _him_.”

She points at the window. At the woods.

And I nod.

“I’m in love with him, Fiona.”

“Basil…” she doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. She paces around the room, throws her hands in the air and huffs, mutters something under her breath and then she finally comes closer and hugs me.

“We’ll leave straight away,” she murmurs, placing a soft kiss on my head, “I’ll leave you alone and never take Lamb here ever again.”

“Thank you.”

**Simon**

He’s found someone else.

I knew it was going to happen, sooner or later. That he would find someone worthy of his love. Someone like him, rich and powerful and elegant. What would a lord like him do with a scruffy gamekeeper like me, broken from the war and with no manners?

He’s so perfect, inside and outside, and I’m just a mess. My body’s covered in ugly scars; I’m plagued with horrible nightmares. I have no family and no future. I can barely read and write. What can I offer to a man like him? He’s beautiful and smart, with the world at his feet.

And I’m just a gamekeeper.

I go back to my cottage, pace around the place, chop some wood whilst I decide what to do with myself.

Shall I stay and wait for him to come back and break my heart?

Shall I pack and leave?

I love being here. I love the woods and Buckle and my job. But I love him more than anything else and I don’t think I can stay here and watch him love someone else. I can’t have my heart shattered any more than it already is. I don’t think I’d survive.

I sit on my bed and break down, angry tears falling down my eyes.

How could I be so stupid? Penny was right; I should have listened to her, but I was blinded by my feelings for him, by the way he makes me feel. Like I’m alive, like I’m whole again. Like I matter.

Buckle snuggles up beside me, whimpering and I pat his head.

“Good boy,” I tell him between sobs, “I’m taking you with me. I’m not leaving you here.”

I start packing my few possessions. I get my travel bag from the wardrobe and hear the door opening and then closing.

“What are you doing?” comes his choked-up voice from behind me. I don’t even turn.

“Packing up,” I say, my voice sounding thick with tears. I hate being so weak. I should be stronger. I survived a fucking war.

“Why?” he asks, moving closer, grabbing my arm and making me turn. His eyes are filled with tears like mine, his bottom lip shaking. “You can’t leave me. Please, Simon.”

“You found someone else,” I reply, my voice quivering, “you don’t need me anymore.”

“No,” he replies, shaking his head, “no! He’s no one. My aunt brought him here to convince me to move to London, but that’s not what I want. I sent them away.”

I look away, trying to think clearly, to decide what to do.

“You’ll find someone else sooner or later,” I mutter, “someone worthy of you, someone more suitable than me.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he nearly shouts, “look at me, Simon.”

I finally do and I think I might drown in his beautiful grey eyes. I thought they looked like the sea when there’s a storm. The wind blowing your bad thoughts away. But today they’re like whirlpools that drag you in, like the tornadoes that Shep always talks about.

“I’m not good enough for you,” I whisper, tears running down my cheeks, “you’ll end up moving to a big city with a nice gentleman anyway. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?” he says, raising his voice.

I stare at him.

“ _You_ make me happy, only you,” he whispers, his fingers gently cupping my cheeks, wiping the tears away, “do I make you happy?”

I have a lump in my throat the size of a rock and my voice won’t come out. I simply nod.

“I love you, Simon,” he says with a tender smile.

I open my eyes wide and stare at him.

“You love me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to post the last chapter before the end of the week. Apologies for the evil cliffie!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic would not have come to life without the amazing support of [ Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) and [ commeunoasis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commeunoasis/pseuds/commeunoasis). Thank you so soooo much!  
> Additional thanks to all the people who left comments and kudos.💙
> 
> Trigger warning for minor injury (small burn) and scarring.

_“All of the king's horses_

_And all of the king’s men_

_Couldn't put my heart back together again._

_All of the physicians and mathematicians too_

_Failed to stop my heart from breaking in two_

_'cause all I need is you_

_I just need you_

_Yeah, you got the glue_

_So I'm going to give my heart to you.”_

_Travis, “The Humpty Dumpty Love Song”_

**Baz**

“I love you, Simon,” I say, trying to smile through the tears.

He opens his eyes wide and stares at me, in disbelief, his lip quivering.

“You love me?” he asks, a shuddered whisper.

“Yes, of course I love you.”

“But you can’t,” he says, shaking his head, his fingers closing around my wrist, my hand still around his cheek, “I’m not good enough for you. I’m all broken and messy. I have no money and no future…”

“You’re not broken,” I say, resting my forehead against his, “you’re lovely and beautiful. You fill my life with so much joy and I would be a complete mess without you. I know nothing about the real world and you’re so full of life. You’ve taught me so much.”

“Me?” he asks, incredulous, “I can barely read and write.”

“What has that got anything to do with it?” I ask, “I’ve been stuck in this Manor all my life, unloved and miserable, living my life through books. I can only feel alive with you.”

A sob escapes his lips and I bring him closer, pulling him towards me, so that his forehead is nestled in the crook of my neck.

“Please don’t leave me,” I whisper in his ear, “ever. Please stay with me. We’re throwing away your travel bag. You don’t need it anymore.”

“Baz…” he says, his voice thick with tears, his hands sliding up my back, grabbing my shirt, holding me close.

“You’re mine and I’m yours,” I say and he whimpers, his hand sliding under my shirt, his skin so warm against mine. And he finally tilts his head up and he kisses me, my hands cupping his cheeks, wiping the tears away. And he’s such a beautiful mess. He’s my mess and I’m his.

We match.

**Simon**

I want him so badly. I want to tell him that I love him too, but the words won’t come out of my mouth. Because I still don’t believe that he loves me. That someone like him could be in love with someone like me.

His trembling fingers start unbuttoning my shirt, then lower my braces, his mouth all over me, tracing a pattern of kisses on my cheeks, down my jaw, on my neck, never leaving me.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers and I shake my head.

“I’m full of scars and my leg is ruined,” I say, feeling ashamed, “you’re so perfect. Your body is untouched. Your skin is like marble. You’re going to regret settling for someone like me.”

“Never,” he replies, sliding the shirt down my arms, baring my chest and gently kissing my scars, tracing them with his fingertips and with his lips, treating me like I’m something precious. I feel like my heart might burst.

“That man, Lamb,” I whisper, his name making the anger boil up in me, “he wanted you.”

“I don’t want him,” he replies, “I only want you.”

His lips collide with mine again and he starts working on my trousers, pulling them down my hips after unfastening them. And I end up completely naked in front of him, as he touches and kisses all my scars and keeps on repeating how much he loves me and wants me. And little by little, after every word and every touch, after every whisper of lips against my skin, I start allowing myself to believe him.

He loves me.

**Baz**

I gently guide him to the bed and I’m still completely dressed, whispering how much I love him and why, making him blush and shiver. I need him to understand how much he means to me.

“I want you,” he whispers, blushing, “I want to feel you.”

I nod and start undressing, my clothes ending up in a messy pile on the floor.

“Get the oil, please,” he says, “I want to feel you inside me.”

I suddenly feel all the blood leaving my face and heading to my groin, as I open my drawer with trembling fingers and then I reach for him, lying on the bed next to him and kissing him again. And his lips are on me, his fingers grabbing and touching me possessively.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, straddling me and moving down, his mouth tracing a pattern down my chest, capturing a nipple between his lips and making me gasp, his fingers curling around my member and stroking me gently, teasingly. And then his mouth wraps around my cock, so hot and wet, sucking on me and making me moan, his tongue prodding the slit at the top, then running along my length.

“You taste delicious,” he murmurs, kissing the root, licking my balls and tugging at my dick at the same time, his eyes locked with mine.

“I want you,” I whisper, “so badly.”

His mouth envelops me again, his head bobbing up and down, my fingers caressing his hair as I tilt my head back and close my eyes, getting lost in the pleasure, breathing hard through the raw feeling of his lips and tongue on me, my legs spread wide.

“I thought you wanted my fingers inside you,” I say when I feel too close to coming and he lets go of me with a wet sound that sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

“I want all of you inside me,” he confesses with a blush and when I understand what he means, I feel like I could come straight away.

“You mean…?” I say, looking down at his hand still firmly wrapped around my member and he nods, licking his lips.

“Fuck, come here,” I blurt out, shakily, “are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, dragging him up, tasting myself on his lips, pulling him closer to me and switching our positions so that I’m lying on top of him.

“You won’t hurt me,” he replies with a smile, his blue eyes serene and full of love. He hasn’t told me if he does, but I know he has feelings for me.

“I…” I swallow loudly and try to think clearly, “I’ve only read about this in books. I’ve seen Japanese prints of men making love. But I’ve never done this before.”

“Start with your fingers,” he suggests, handing me the oil and spreading his legs for me. I think I might faint and my hands are shaking as I pour some oil onto my fingers, “hey, look at me.”

I do and there’s so much tenderness in his eyes that I feel like melting. I kiss him softly, for a long time, relaxing under his touch and then I start working him open with my fingers, one at a time, slowly, until he’s panting and moaning against my mouth, begging me for more.

I look at him, so beautiful in the light of day, the midday sun filtering through the curtains and making his hair look almost like copper. His lips are red from all the kisses I’ve shared with him, curling towards the top in a lovely smile, just for me.

“I love you so much,” I whisper, closing my eyes and feeling his hands on my cheek, a soft kiss on my temple.

I position myself between his legs and lift his knees, so that his thighs are resting against my chest and his ankles are on my shoulders. I cover my member in oil and then I take it in my hand and guide it towards his entrance, feeling the anticipation and the fear of hurting him, the love for him and the need to have him close, to be inside him. I feel it all at once and he takes a deep breath, squeezing my hand, and then I push.

My eyes lock with his, open wide in surprise, as I slowly slide inside him, inch by inch, holding my breath, because it’s too much. He’s so hot and tight and mind-blowing.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper, closing my eyes and trying to breathe, “you feel amazing.”

He groans and my eyes snap open, checking that he isn’t in pain.

“Am I hurting you, love?” I ask, “I can pull out and we can stop.”

“No,” he whispers, “just give me a minute to get used to it.”

His eyes close and his eyebrows crease, then he lets out a small sound through his mouth when I start stroking his cock, making him hard again.

“You can start moving,” he says after a while and I gently pull out and then push back inside, swearing under my breath at the incredible feeling, doing it again and again, picking up a pace, until we’re both moaning and he’s calling my name. My fingers keep on moving on his cock and he’s leaking so much precome, needy little sounds coming from his open lips as I try not to come, desperately waiting for him to do so before me.

“Fuck, there, Baz,” he whimpers, “harder, please.”

I push harder and he’s suddenly crying out my name, spilling into my hand and I finally let go, sliding in deeper and coming harder than I ever have, filling him up with my come with a shuddering gasp.

I collapse on top of him, my cock sliding out, and we’re both trying to catch our breath when I hear him sniggering against my neck. I look up and he starts laughing for good.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, confused.

“I was imagining you, looking all posh and serious, staring at Japanese prints of men fucking while you’re sipping tea on your expensive sofa.”

He starts laughing even louder and I pretend to be offended, but then I join him, sinking into his embrace.

I’m happy.

**Simon**

He kisses me so softly and longingly, his body warm in my arms, his hair all messy and lovely. His cheeks are pink and he can’t stop smiling and neither can I.

I’ve never felt so happy in my entire life.

“Let’s get you clean, love,” he whispers, kissing me one more time, “I’ll light the fire and warm up some water.”

He stands up and I look at his naked figure moving with ease around my home, his long elegant legs, the curve of his back, his glorious behind. And I’m filled with so much love and want for this man. I can’t believe that he’s in love with me.

He starts the fire, humming a tune with his baritone voice and I just stare at him with a stupid smile on my face. He puts some water to heat up in a pot and then comes back to bed to cuddle up next to me.

“I missed you,” he whispers against my lips and I start laughing.

“You were gone for two minutes,” I point out and his arms circle my waist, bringing me closer.

“Still too long,” he replies, kissing my neck, tracing lazy patterns with his fingers on my hips, “I’m not letting you get away from me ever again.”

“Can I ask you something?” He nods and I slide my fingers through his raven hair, looking at his beautiful face, tracing the shape of his nose with my fingertip.

“Do you ever stare at me from your window with a telescope?”

He blushes and bites on his lip and I start laughing, because that’s all I needed as an answer.

“Pirate Baz with his telescope,” I tease and he slaps my arse jokingly, standing up to fetch the water, “no, come back to bed, my pirate. Your prisoner awaits!”

His hand reaches for the pot on the fire and he turns to pull his tongue out at me, but then he hisses and lets out a small shout.

“What happened?” I ask, worried.

“I’ve just burnt myself,” he replies, cradling his wrist in his hand, “nothing serious and there’s no blood. I’m fine.”

I stand up and go to him, worried sick, but he’s staring at his wrist with a fascinated expression on his face.

“Do you think it’s going to scar?” he asks with a hopeful look. I hold his arm and look at the small half-moon shaped burn mark just under his wrist. It’s red and barely an inch long, but I know it must hurt.

“Let’s get you some fresh water to cool it down,” I reply and he smiles at me.

**Baz**

Simon fusses over me and I grab his arm to stop him. It hurts a bit, but I’m not worried about it.

It’s my first ever scar. The first ever mark on my body, showing that I’ve been through _something_.

I finally feel alive.

“My first scar,” I whisper dreamily, “it will be a reminder of the first time I told you that I love you. Every time I look at it, I will think about today. About the first time we made love. About you saying that you wanted me.”

“I…” Simon seems speechless. He gently strokes my cheek and then kisses me lovingly. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

**Simon**

The days go by and they turn into weeks.

Baz comes every day. He spends most nights with me and we seem to never get enough of each other. He takes me in all the positions that he’s seen in his saucy Japanese prints and then we make up some more.

The first few times I still feel a bit sore, because I’m too tense. I struggle to even think, overwhelmed by how full and stretched he makes me feel. But we soon get better at it and we learn what we like, what makes him moan and lose control, what makes me come three times in the space of an evening.

His scar changes colour. It goes from red to brown and then fades to a silvery white. I stare at it and when it stops hurting, I run my fingertips along its half-moon shape, like a promise. Like a memory of what happened between us. I do it every time I want to tell him that I love him, but somehow the words won’t come out. I look at him and smile, my fingers gently brushing against the mark on his wrist and he kisses me tenderly, so softly, whispering that he loves me with all his heart.

It feels like a dream and I never want to wake up.

**Baz**

I’m simply insatiable. I can’t have enough of him.

“I love you,” I whisper in his ear as my member slides inside him. We’re lying on his bed on our side; I press my chest against his back and raise his right leg even higher and push deeper, making him moan softly. I kiss his neck and then start sucking on it. I want to mark him as mine, leave a love bite on his skin that will remind both of us of this moment. He grabs my wrist, touches my scar and then brings it to his lips and gently kisses it.

I slide in and out, enjoying the drag of my cock inside him. He’s so warm and tight and I’ve probably overdone it with the oil, but I can easily pick up my pace and make him pant, needy little sounds escaping his lips as he swears under his breath.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he mutters on a gasp.

“I want to make love to you on my bed,” I whisper.

“Is mine not good enough for your posh dick?” he asks, chuckling and I gently bite the skin behind his ear as I pound into him.

“I love your bed; it smells like you. But I have a huge mirror in my room,” I explain, nearly out of breath, “I want you to see me fucking you. I want you to see my cock sliding in and out of you.”

I can see his chest and cheeks colouring and he moans, his entrance clenching around me and making me whimper.

“They’re going to find out,” he mutters, “I can’t keep my voice down when you touch me. You feel too good and you make me lose control.”

I move faster, my hand finally closing around his dick to stroke him firmly. He starts moaning loudly, calling my name as he spills his come onto my fingers and all over his chest. And it only takes me a few more thrusts to fill him up with my come, holding him tight, overwhelmed by how much pleasure I feel, shaking me to the core.

“Fuck,” he groans, “that was mind-blowing.”

“Yes…” I manage to say, trying to catch my breath, inhaling his scent and smiling into his neck.

We clean up and then I look at him getting dressed again, wishing that we could just lie on his bed naked for a little longer.

“Will you fuck me next time?” I ask and he stops in his tracks, pulling his braces up, his shirt buttons half done.

“I…” he swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down his neck, “I’m worried I might hurt you.”

“Do I hurt you?” I ask, suddenly scared at the thought that he might have been hiding his pain from me, but he shakes his head and comes back to bed, his hand catching mine.

“No, you make me feel amazing,” he replies, kissing my cheek tenderly, “but…I’m scared that I might make you bleed accidentally or maybe bruise you and…”

“You won’t,” I reply, kissing him back, “I know you’ll be careful and use the oil. You won’t hurt me.”

“Baz…” his brows furrow and he looks worried.

“Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass,” I whisper, “please. Not you.”

His hand squeezes mine and he rests his forehead against mine, carding his fingers through my hair.

“You’re not made of glass,” he says, “and if you want me to, I will do it.”

“Tonight,” I whisper, “later.”

He looks me in the eyes and nods and then he continues getting dressed.

“I have work to do on the northern gate. Are you coming with me?” he asks.

“I wish I could, but I need to go back to the Manor to help Mordelia sort out a few things. She’s leaving in a few days and there’s still so much to do.”

“Are you sad that she’s leaving?” he asks, handing me my clothes and sitting on the bed as I get dressed, looking at me.

“A bit,” I reply honestly, “but I can finally get the freedom I’ve been craving. The Manor will be all mine and you can come and go as you please.”

He stares at the bed and plays with his shirt, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe,” he finally mutters. I guess it’s better than his usual no.

“I’ll be back in the late afternoon,” I say, kissing his lips softly and making him smile again.

“Soup for dinner?” he asks.

“That would be nice; the days are getting colder. I’ll bring some fresh bread and dessert.”

We kiss for a few minutes and then I take my leave, counting the hours that separate us.

**Simon**

I can’t stop thinking about him. About what he wants me to do tonight.

I’ve actually been thinking about it for a while, wondering what it would feel like to be inside him. To bury myself deep inside of his warmth and sink my face into his neck, inhaling his sent as I fuck him. My cock stirs in my trousers at the thought and I groan. He made me come just a couple of hours ago and I’m already hard for him.

I’m just worried that I might accidentally hurt him. I want to be careful and delicate, but what if it feels so good that I lose control?

What if I’m too forceful?

It would probably be best to do it in his room, so that if something happens, we can call a doctor straight away. But I don’t want to go to the Manor. His servants will find out. I imagine Vera’s horrified face. His butler’s disgusted glare. Penny’s disappointed look.

I close my eyes and try to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth.

What if they call the police? He’s the lord of the Manor; would they dare? I know they wouldn’t hesitate for a second to report me, but what if I accidentally hurt him?

“What the fuck shall I do?” I say out loud and Buckle comes closer, licking my hand and whining softly. “We’re not cut out for posh manors, are we? We’re going to get the fancy carpets all dirty with our muddy paws.”

I ruffle the fur behind his ears and he wags his tail at me, nudging my leg playfully.

“What do you think I should do, eh?” I ask him and he barks, “I didn’t quite get that.”

I wish I could ask Shep for help, but it takes ages for my letters to reach him and for his replies to arrive here. I told him about Baz a few weeks ago, but I still haven’t received a reply about that particular letter.

The sun is about to set and I walk back home, Buckle running around behind me. I wash and then I start making soup, peeling the vegetables and thinking about him, about his hands on me, his lips skimming over my chest, lingering on my scars, moving lower. And I’m suddenly filled with desire for him, with the need to make him mine.

Buckle barks and I nearly run to the door, opening it and feeling my heart thumping in my chest when I’m greeted with his breath-taking smile and his rosy cheeks.

“Good evening,” he says and I would normally wait for him to come in, for the door to be shut and locked behind his back before I have the courage to touch him, but today is different. Today I want him so badly, my skin burning with the need to feel him closer. So I take a step forward and I cup his face as I stand on tiptoes and bring his lips to mine, feeling his hands circling my waist, drawing me closer. I explore his mouth with a groan and his hands move to my arse, squeezing my cheeks and sliding under my thighs, lifting me up. I hook my legs around his waist as he pushes me against the outside wall of the cottage and moans into my mouth, his tongue sliding against mine in the most delicious way.

“Oh my Lord!” a high-pitched voice and a loud gasp make me freeze. I tense in his arms and we part hurriedly, as we entangle from our embrace and he gently puts me down. We both look behind us at the same time and just stare at Penny. She’s gaping at us, her eyebrows still high on her forehead, in a look of utter shock.

“Everything makes sense now,” she mutters, her hand covering her mouth.

“Penny,” I whisper, moving closer, but she takes a step back.

“I told you to be careful,” she says, shaking her head, ”I told you not to make stupid mistakes.”

She looks on the verge of tears and I suddenly see fear in her eyes when they land on Baz.

“Miss Penelope,” his voice is deep and has a dangerous note to it, “we’re going to discuss this and find an amicable solution.”

She shakes her head again and starts pulling back, then she looks at me and bites her lips, before running down the path, deeper into the woods.

“Fuck,” Baz mutters and I hear panic in his voice. I finally look into his eyes and his fingers curl around my wrist, his hand drags me closer, “don’t leave me, please.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“You were going to leave me last time. I was going to find you gone. Please don’t go, just because she has found out about us.” I feel a lump in my throat and I kiss him gently.

“I’m not going to leave without saying goodbye,” I try to reassure him, but that seems to make him even more upset.

“You want to leave then? I’m coming with you,” he says, his eyes locking with mine, “I’m not staying here without you.”

“Calm down, Baz,” I say, gently stroking his hair, the need to make him feel better stronger than my own fear, “I can talk to Penny and try to convince her not to tell anyone.”

“Will you?” he asks, a desperate tone in his voice, “I can offer her money, anything she wants.”

“Let me talk to her,” I say, kissing him softly, “you stay here with Buckle and I will go and talk to Penny. I will be back, I promise.”

He stands there, on the doorway, Buckle at his feet, as I walk down the path, waving at him, thinking that I will do anything to protect this fragile thing that we have built. To keep our love safe from the outside world.

I keep on walking until I reach a clearing and find Penny sitting on a tree stump, her back turned to me.

“I thought you were just friends,” she says, before I can even open my mouth, “I thought you were getting too close to him. Vera always says how your friendship saved Lord Basilton. How happy he is now. I didn’t think you were lovers!”

“We are also friends,” I venture, stepping closer, circling her sitting figure until I’m standing in front of her and she fixes her piercing glare on me, “but we’re also more. So much more.”

“You’re playing with fire, Simon.”

“I know, but…”

“You know? Are you sure you actually know what you’re risking?” she raises her voice, her knuckles turning white as they hold onto the wood.

“It…it’s all worth it…the risk, I mean.”

“Run away with me,” she says, “I’ll keep you safe and we can both start from scratch. Find a new job, a new place to live.”

“I…I can’t,” I say, shrugging.

She looks at me as if I’d grown wings and a tail and I hear a noise behind her, then I realise that he’s here. Baz has followed me and is standing there, half-hidden behind a tree, a desperate look in his grey eyes.

“Penny, I trust him,” I say and I can see Baz’s lips quiver, pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowing, “I…it’s too late. I’m in too deep and I can’t be without him anymore.”

“And you’re willing to run the risk?” she asks in disbelief.

I nod and Baz nods too, a small smile forming on his lips as he looks at me.

“I love him,” I say looking him in the eyes, “I’m in love with him.”

A tear falls down his cheek, followed by another one, until he’s a sobbing mess, crouching on the floor and I find myself running towards him, wrapping him in my arms, kissing his head and whispering in his ears how much I love him, how much he means to me, that I would die for him.

It feels like ages before I realise that Penny is standing behind me, until she clears her voice and we both look at her.

“What I had actually come to tell you,” she says, hands on her hips, “is that I’ve decided that I’m not going to go to France with Mordelia. I’m going to America instead.”

“America?” I ask, surprised, Baz’s fingers interlacing with mine, squeezing them. We both stand up and Penny looks at our joined hands and seems to blush, then she straightens her glasses and nods.

“I think it’s time for me to see the world,” she declares, “leaving all of this behind. Leaving Pitch Manor behind. Your secret is safe with me, though.”

“Thank you,” Baz whispers, “thank you, Miss Penelope.”

“Where are you going to go?” I ask, finally smiling at her.

“I guess Omaha is a place like any other to start afresh,” she says and this time I can clearly see her cheeks turning a lovely shade of red.

“I bet a certain someone is going to be over the moon to see you,” I say, leaving Baz’s hand and finding the courage to hug her. I whisper a thank you in her ear and she holds me closer.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say.

“Me too, but we’ll write. We’re friends, after all.”

“Friends,” I nod and smile.

**Baz**

He drags me back to the cottage, his hands all over me as soon as we shut the door and he locks it in a hurry.

His mouth is on me, his fingers travelling down my body, unfastening my trousers, unbuttoning my shirt. I can’t stop thinking about his words, about the fact that he loves me and that he didn’t want to leave. He said that he couldn’t.

And then we’re both completely naked on his bed, his fingers inside me, so slow and careful, while he whispers in my ear how much he loves me, how much he needs me. And I’m begging him to take me, because I want to feel him inside, as deep as he can go, to feel that I’m one thing with him in every possible way. I lie on my belly, my hips up in the air when he finally slides inside and I let out a deep moan, unable to contain my voice.

**Simon**

Nothing could have prepared me for how it feels. The heat and the pressure and the lovely sounds that he’s making, it’s all too much and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to calm down, because I feel like I might come straight away.

“Please,” he begs, his voice a needy whimper, “please, Simon.”

He pushes back and I start moving with a groan, slowly at first, and then letting his moans guide me, making him pant and call my name, over and over again, until he spills white streaks on my hand and I finally give in to the pleasure and come inside him, his name on my lips and tears falling down my eyes.

“I love you,” I whisper, my nose sinking into his hair, inhaling his soothing smell, “I love you, Baz.”

**Baz**

I feel restless.

The days go by and Mordelia leaves for France; Miss Penelope decides to go to London to see her family, before travelling to America.

It’s finally just the two of us. I love him and he loves me.

But the days grow colder and the rain becomes relentless and I worry about him. About his memories dragging him down again, about the mud and the rain. About how cold his cottage feels and the fact that it’s just October.

I want him safe in my home.

I sit down in my study and think, looking outside of the window. I carefully consider all my options and then I make a decision.

I take pen and paper and I start writing.

_Dear Father,_

**Simon**

He knocks on the door and comes in, without waiting for a reply. I greet him with a kiss and he gently caresses my cheek, then he sits down next to me.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” he says, “but I need you to listen to me, before you give me your answer.”

I nod and start worrying, but his hand takes mine and he smiles in such a loving way that my nerves settle.

“I want you to move in with me. I want you at the Manor,” he says and I open my mouth to reply, but he shakes his head. “I worry about you being here on your own, when I’m not around. Winter is going to be cold and this cottage is full of holes. We could repair it and I could come and stay here with you, if you want. But the Manor is definitely better suited, at least until spring.”

“I…” I don’t know what to say, so I just let my worries spill out of my mouth, “people will talk. What if they report us to the police? What if your father finds out?”

“I’ve dismissed most of my staff and closed off part of the Manor, since I don’t need that many rooms. And before you start worrying, I have given everyone a letter of recommendation and they’ve all found a new place. There’s only Vera and a couple of other people left and I spoke to them about you moving in and I gave them a chance to leave if they wanted to. They decided to stay.”

“But your father…”

“I’ve written to him,” he says, “and I told him about us.”

My eyes open wide and I stare at him.

“You what?!” I ask, in disbelief.

“My aunt Fiona already knows, because I told her when she came to visit. She’s still a bit shocked, but she supports us. And my father, well, I don’t really care what he says.”

I’m just left speechless, staring at him, then at our joined hands, unable to say anything.

“Simon, I’ve been alone most of my life, and you have too. I might be posh and inexperienced and I overthink everything, but I know something worth fighting for when I come across it.” He pauses and then kisses my hand, “I love you. I love you with all my heart and I will not let you go. I want to be with you, for the rest of my days, every single one of them. Have we not suffered enough? Don’t we both deserve to be happy?” 

I let his words sink in and I look at our joined hands, at his pleading eyes and pouty lips. And I think about how much this man means to me.

“I thought that love was only for rich people,” I say, my voice low, threatening to crack, “that people like me could never experience it. But you’re always on my mind, day and night. And I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re gone.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks, his voice so hopeful that I feel my heart melting.

“I’m not going to change. I’m not going to wear posh clothes and…”

“I love you as you are.”

“What, scruffy?” I ask in disbelief.

“You’re a lovely kind of mess,” he replies fondly, “and I wouldn’t change you for the world. I just want you close to me, every day and every night.”

“What about Buckle?”

“He’s coming too, of course,” he replies straight away, “I want him sleeping at the foot of my bed. Of our bed. I’m used to him snoring anyway.” 

I take a deep breath and ask myself if I’m strong enough for this. To take this step. And then I think that I survived a fucking war. That so many others didn’t come back. Like Gareth and Ebb. That I owe it to them to live.

Not to simply survive, but to actually live.

“Yes,” I reply, the tears running down my eyes, making my vision blurry, “I’ll move in with you.”

His arms circle me and drag me closer, his hand at the back of my neck, his fingers carding through my curls as he smiles against my lips and tells me that he loves me. And I believe him.

He takes my hand and we both stand up.

“Let’s go then,” he says.

“Now?” I ask and he nods.

And I take a step, then another and another, until I’ve crossed the threshold and Buckle is at my side, tilting his head up at me as he wags his tail. And we’re walking down the path, hand in hand, until we reach the end of the woods and my feet nearly stop. But then he turns and smiles at me and I find the courage to put one foot in front of the other, to cross that invisible barrier that I had built. And I follow him.

I let him take me home.

“Carry on, love,” he says, “we’re nearly there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really hope you liked the ending of this fic. I've honestly poured my heart into it.  
> If you're interested in some kind of sequel (I say kind of, because it's not an actual sequel), I would recommend reading my other fic [I carry your heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479630)


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